LIVES  AND  LETTERS 


OF 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE. 


BY 


0.   W.    WIGHT. 


"  M6s  ge  ne  croi  mie,  par  m'ame, 
C'onques  puis  fust  une  tel  fame.'1 

Roman  de  la  Rose,  t  ii.,  p.  213. 


NEW   YORK: 
M.  DOOLADY,  49  WALKER  STREET. 

M  DCCC  LXI. 


Entered  according  to  Act  of  Congress,  in  the  year  1S60, 
BY  0.  W.  WIGHT, 

In  the  Clerk's  Office  of  the  District  Court  of  the  United  States  for  the 
Southern  District  of  New  York. 


RIVERSIDE,  CAMBRIDGE:  PRINTED  BY  H.  o.  HOUGHTON. 


PREFACE. 


THIS  book,  written  ten  years  ago,  is  faulty 
in  style,  but  contains,  it  is  believed,  an  accu- 
rate history  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  and  a  new 
translation  of  their  famous  letters.  It  was  first 
published  under  the  title  of  "  The  Kornance  of 
Abelard  and  Heloise,"  and  has  long  been  out 
of  print.  The  title  was  unfortunate,  inasmuch 
as  it  gave  rise  to  the  impression  that  we  had 
been  rhapsodizing  about  the  renowned  lovers, 
instead  of  writing  their  lives.  We  respond  to 
the  demand  for  a  new  edition,  and  send  it  forth 
with  a  new  title,  with  revision,  and  with  much 
additional  matter. 

In  translating  the  letters,  we  left  in  the  ori- 
ginal Latin  a  very  few  passages  that  we  did  not 
care  to  render  literally.  A  paraphrase  would 


PREFACE. 


have  been  no  translation.  The  concluding 
pages  of  the  correspondence  were  omitted  sim- 
ply because  Abelard  and  Heloise  left  them- 
selves, left  the  subject  of  their  misfortunes  and 
their  love,  and  entered  upon  a  dry-as-dust  dis- 
cussion of  monastic  institutions.  Abelard's 
letter  about  nunneries  is  as  dreary  a  piece  of 
composition  as  any  mortal  ever  had  the  mis- 
fortune to  read,  and  none  but  a  professional 
antiquary  could  regret  its  omission  here. 

The  story — the  whole  story — of  Abelard  and 
Heloise  will  be  found  in  these  pages,  told  in 
the  ambitious  style  of  youth ;  and  if  any  one 
is  inclined  to  censure,  let  him  blame  the  Muse 
of  History  rather  than  us.  The  Ages  have 
preserved  the  record  of  their  passionate  love, 
their  tears  have  been  embalmed  for  us  in  the 
burning  language  of  the  heart ;  let  those  who 
are  able  extract  wisdom  from  a  faithful  picture 
of  human  experience. 

"CEDAR-GROVE,"  Rye,  1860. 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

L— Genesis 9 

II.— Birth-Place 15 

III.— Logical  Knight-Errantry 20 

IV.— An  Episode:  the  First  Crusade 27 

V.— To  Paris.— Paris  at  the  beginning  of  the  Twelfth  Century . .  85 
VI. — Abelard  studies  at  the  School  of  Notre-Dame,  and  quarrels 

with  his  Master,  William  of  Champeux 40 

VII.— Melun  and  Corbeil 45 

VIII.— Philosophy  and  Sickness 50 

IX.— Argenteuil.— A  fair  Pupil  of  the  Nuns 55 

X.— The  Condition  of  Woman  at  the  beginning  of  the  Twelfth 

Century 59 

XL — An  unwelcome  Auditor,  listens  to  an  Old  Master  in  a  New 

Place  67 

XIL— Siege  of  Paris 72 

XIII.— Abelard  returns  to  Pallet  to  part  with  his  Mother 75 

XIV.— Anselm  of  Laon 79 

XV.— Fulbert  and  his  Niece 84 

XVI. — "  The  Observed  of  all  Observers" 89 

XVII— A  Pair  of  Renowned  Lovers 93 

XVIIL— Confusion  on  every  side 101 

XIX.— Secret  Marriage 104 

XX.— Retribution ..  113 


CONTENTS. 


PAGE 

XXL— The  Veil  and  the  Cowl 119 

XXII.— No  Object  and  no  Rest:  a  Monodrama 123 

XXIIL— Heloise  again.— The  Monodrama  continues 137 

XXIV.— Letter  of  Heloise  to  Abelard 14:3 

XXV.— Letter  of  Abelard  to  Heloise 158 

XXVI.— Letter  of  Heloise  to  Abelard 1M 

XXVIL— Epistle  of  Abelard  to  Heloise 185 

XXVIIL— Letter  of  Heloise  to  Abelard 213 

XXIX.— The  Curtain  falls 216 

XXX.— Retrospect 228 

XXXI.—"  Dust  to  Dust " 262 

XXXIL— Recapitulation,  in  the  Language  of  a  Poet 267 


LIVES   AND   LETTERS 

OF 

ABELARD  AND   HELOISE. 


I. 

GENESIS. 

E-EAL  romance  is  in  real  history.  Life,  as  it  is  lived, 
is  more  wonderful  and  touching  than  life  as  it  is 
shaped  by  the  fancy.  History  gives  us  the  substance 
of  existence ;  fiction  gives  us  nothing  but  its  shadow. 
The  highest  conception  of  genius  is  meagre,  when 
compared  with  the  drama  that  humanity  is  enacting 
in  time  and  space. 

Most  of  us  have  lived  a  romance  more  beautiful 
and  pathetic  than  ever  yet  has  been  described  by  the 
pen  of  man.  Experience  is  the  light  whereby  one  is 
able  to  read  all  romantic  history.  We  know  when 
the  historian  writes  fiction  instead  of  truth,  for  within 
us  is  a  test.  Truth  to  life,  we  always  demand.  The 

romancer  must  faithfully  give  us  the  experience  of 
1* 


10  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

his  own  heart,  or  faithfully  report  the  experience  of 
others.  Nothing  less  than  the  history  of  real  life  will 
satisfy  us.  Truth  is  stranger  than  fiction,  and  truth 
we  must  have. 

Life  is  not  new ;  there  is  nothing  new  under  the  sun. 
No  doubt,  life  was  more  complete  and  satisfying  in 
the  garden  of  Eden,  millenniums  ago,  than  it  is  to-day, 
here  in  the  United  States  of  America.  Was  there 
not  a  woman's  heart  in  the  beautiful  bosom  of  Aspasia? 
Was  there  not  a  man's  brain  in  the  Roman  head  of 
Cato  ?  Human  nature  is  the  same  every  where. 
Humanity,  through  a  thousand  variations,  is  ever 
humming  the  same  old  tune  of  life. 

The  remoteness  and  obscurity  of  the  Middle  Age 
then,  cannot  be  objected  to  us  in  our  present  under- 
taking. Abelard  and  Heloise  were  human,  and  have 
for  us  a  human  interest.  In  the  Middle  Age,  heaven- 
facing  speakers  and  actors  walked  the  earth,  that 
looked  quite  similar  to  those  who  are  moving  to  and 
fro  to-day.  Man  then  felt,  as  he  now  feels,  that  it  is  not 
good  to  be  alone.  Then  the  precious  heart  of  woman 
deeply  yearned,  as  it  always  yearns,  for  sympathy, 
with  which  she  is  blessed,  without  which  she  is 
wretched.  Down  upon  thy  brother  and  thy  sister, 
looked,  calmly  and  sweetly,  the  same  stars,  that  each 
night  keep  watch  over  thee.  The  wind  that  kissed 
the  cold  cheek  of  the  Alps  then,  kisses  it  still.  The 
same  hymn  of  nature  that  now  goes  up  from  the  hills 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  11 

of  New- England,  and  the  deep-bosomed  forests  of  the 
West,  to  greet  the  morning ;  then  went  up  from  wold, 
plain,  and  mountain,  touching  the  heart  of  the  early 
worshipper,  and  melodiously  uttering  for  him  the 
praise  that  his  soul  would  give  to  Deity.  Then,  too, 
each  son  of  Adam,  and  each  daughter  of  Eve,  need- 
ed food  and  raiment,  for  which  they  toiled,  slaved, 
enslaved,  trafficked,  cheated,  stole,  talked,  wrote, 
preached,  fought,  or  robbed.  The  breath  of  passion 
swept  the  chords  of  life,  and  the  answering  tones  of 
joy  or  woe  were  heard.  Reformers  disturbed  conser- 
vatives in  church  and  state,  and  statesmen  preserved 
kingdoms,  as  politicians  now  save  the  Union.  Then, 
too,  men  wept  and  prayed,  laughed  and  sung.  There 
were  then  marriage  and  giving  in  marriage,  wars  and 
rumors  of  war,  loves  and  hates,  the  cries  of  child- 
hood and  the  complainings  of  age.  The  enchanting 
spirit  of  beauty  flooded  heaven  and  earth ;  and  the 
solemn  mystery  of  things  filled  the  soul  with  awe. 
The  old  sphinx  was  still  sitting  by  the  wayside,  and 
the  children  of  earth  strove  to  solve  the  tough  and 
ever  recurring  problem  of  destiny.  Stars  were  silent 
above  them,  graves  silent  beneath;  and  the  soul  was 
compelled  to  answer  as  she  could,  to  the  imperative 
questionings  of  sense.  The  Middle  Age  was  an  age 
of  humanity,  and  has  an  interest  for  us,  for  human 
things  touch  the  heart. 

Our  freedom  has  its  roots  in  the  twelfth  century. 


12  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Then  through  the  influence  of  the  communes*  began 
the  enfranchisement  of  the  people;  with  Heloise, 
the  most  devoted  and  one  of  the  greatest  of  her  sex, 
began  the  enfranchisement  of  woman ;  with  Abelard, 
one  of  the  most  eloquent  of  men,  began  the  enfran- 
chisement of  human  thought.  Woman,  recognized  in 
the  Middle  Age  by  the  state  under  the  degrading  title 
of  the  weaker  vessel  (vas  infirmior), — woman  cursed 
in  the  eleventh  century  by  the  church,  the  heroic  He- 
loise in  the  twelfth  century  proved,  by  her  example  and 
her  writings,  to  be  equal  with  man, — equal  as  a  whole, 
compensating  for  lack  of  energy  and  strength  by  su- 
perior devotedness,  patient  endurance  and  love.  With 


*  Thus  have  been  called  the  towns  that  sprung  up  at  the 
foot  of  the  castles  of  the  great  lords,  the  inhabitants  of  which 
purchased  from  their  masters  a  few  privileges.  "  Needy  and 
wretched  as  they  were,"  says  Michelet,  "  poor  artisans,  smiths, 
and  weavers,  suffered  to  cluster  together  for  shelter  at  the 
foot  of  a  castle,  or  fugitive  serfs  crowding  round  a  church, 
they  could  manage  to  find  money ;  and  men  of  this  stamp 
were  the  founders  of  our  liberties."  Kings  sometimes,  in 
their  contests  with  the  feudal  lords,  called  in  the  aid  of  the 
commons,  and,  in  requital  for  service,  gave  new  privileges. 
Noble  is  the  language  put  by  the  author  of  the  Romance  of 
the  Rose  in  the  mouths  of  these  commons,  in  regard  to  their 
lords :  "  We  are  men  as  they  are,  we  have  such  limbs  as  they 
have,  and  quite  as  great  hearts,  and  can  endure  as  much.** 

Michelet's  History  of  France,  b.  3,  c.  iv. 

Rob.  Wace,  Roman  de  Rou,  v.  6025. 

Thierry  :  Lettres  sur  1'Histoire  de  France. 

Guizot :  Fifth  vol.  of  his  Cours. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  13 

Abelard  commenced  a  movement  that  triumphed  with 
Luther,  after  the  martyrdom  of  Hiiss,  and  how  many 
more  ! 

With  the  philosophy  of  Abelard  we  shall  not 
trouble  ourselves  here.  Abelard  and  Heloise — the 
greatest  man  and  the  greatest  woman  of  the  twelfth 
century — were  brought  by  fortune  into  romantic  rela- 
tions with  each  other,  and,  as  lovers,  they  possess  for 
each  soul  of  us  an  extraordinary  interest.  The 
heart  is  not  human  that  does  not  love.  There  is  no 
use  in  denying  the  fact,  that  happiness  or  misery  is, 
somehow,  strangely  connected  with  conditions  of  the 
heart.  Woman  asks  no  more  in  this  world  than  to  be 
sincerely  loved.  When  she  is  queen  of  one  devoted 
heart,  then  she  has  a  kingdom  that  sufficeth  for  her 
ambition.  When  all  is  well  with  her  affections,  she 
thanks  God  for  his  abundant  blessing,  and  is  happy. 
Man  is  as  restless  as  the  wind  until  his  soul  is  anchor- 
ed in  woman's  love.  Without  it  there  is  for  him  no 
rest,  no  peace.  When  equally  mated  with  one  that  is 
faithful,  he  is  ready  for  any  trials  that  "  outrageous 
fortune  "  may  prepare  for  him,  and  the  common  adver- 
sities of  life  are  tossed  aside  as  "  a  lion  shakes  the 
dew-drops  from  his  mane."  The  Powers  Invisible 
have  such  blessings  in  store  for  only  a  limited  num- 
ber ;  hence  the  misfortunes  of  Abelard  and  Heloise 
have  a  fresh  interest  for  each  new  generation.  They 
enacted  upon  the  earth  a  real  romance,  a  faithful  history 


14  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

of  which  we  have  undertaken  to  write.  The  cu- 
rious, the  students  of  human  nature  and  history,  and 
those  who  like  to  amuse  themselves  with  a  romantic 
narrative,  may  come  here  and  get  from  a  brother  man 
such  help  and  pleasure  as  he  can  give  and  they  re- 
ceive. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  15 


II. 

BIRTH-PLACE. 

INASMUCH  as  we  have  determined  to  follow  the 
chronological  order,  which  is  perhaps  the  only  true  or- 
der in  all  veritable  history,  it  is  necessary  to  commence 
with  Abelard's  birth-place.  We  must  describe  the 
place  where  the  first  scene  of  the  first  act  of  the 
drama  of  his  life  is  laid. 

After  leaving  Nantes  in  Brittany,  and  before  arriv- 
ing at  Clisson,  we  come  to  a  little  village  which  is  called 
Pallet.  There  is  but  one  street.  That  street,  however, 
is  long  enough,  if  it  were  sufficiently  divided,  to  make  a 
village  of  the  usual  form.  We  are  about  to  leave  the 
place  behind  us  without  observing  any  thing  remark- 
able. Let  us  stop,  however,  and  survey  that  church 
on  our  left,  that  overlooks  the  street  below.  It  is  a 
simple  church,  but  men  are  accustomed  to  worship 
there  the  Maker  of  heaven  and  earth.  It  stands,  as 
it  were,  at  the  gateway  of  the  village,  and  we  will  re- 
spect the  temple  of  the  Infinite.  Some  of  its  parts 
seem  to  be  remarkable  for  their  antiquity ;  we  will  go, 
and,  if  may  be,  find  some  monument  of  an  earlier  age 


16  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

What  mean  those  remains  of  thick  walls,  and  those 
vestiges  of  ditches,  upon  the  hill  back  of  the  church  ? 
They  are  overgrown  with  ivy,  and  seem  to  be  very 
old.  Never  mind  the  church,  let  us  ascend  the 
hill.  The  dilapidated  walls,  and  half-filled  fosses^ 
indicate  an  ancient  and  strong  construction.  They 
inclose  a  cemetery,  now  abandoned,  and  overgrown 
with  weeds  and  shrubs.  Tread  softly :  beneath  us 
sleep  the  dead,  those  who  once  thought,  felt,  and  act- 
ed, as  we  now  think,  feel,  and  act.  The  earth  is  a  vast 
burial-ground ;  every  step  we  take,  we  press  beneath 
our  feet  dust  that  once  has  been  ensouled  with  the 
breath  of  Jehovah.  We  will  go  and  stand  by  that  old 
stone  cross,  erected  in  the  midst  of  a  few  modest 
tombs. 

Here*  dwelt,  and  here  still  dwell,  the  lords  of 
Pallet.  Times  have  changed,  but  they  heed  it  not. 
Their  sleep  is  deep.  They  were  brave  knights  and 
true,  but  they  have  for  ever  laid  aside  the  armor  and 
the  lance.  The  war-trump  may  sound.  Europe  may 
again  and  again  be  the  theatre  of  conflict,  but  not  a 
finger  will  they  lift,  either  for  the  new  cause  or  the 
old.  Some  other  than  a  war-trump  must  be  sounded 
to  make  them  answer  the  call.  Sleep  on,  thou  lord  of 
Pallet,  thy  villain  shall  not  disturb  thee  more,  unless 
some  injury  thou  hast  done  him,  shall  yet  be  paid  for 

*  Abelard,  par  Charles  de  Remusat,  t.  I.,  p  1. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  17 

out  of  thy  soul's  joy.  Thinkest  thou  that  he  will  be 
thy  villain  hereafter  ?  Tears  and  toil  were  appointed 
unto  thee  also,  upon  the  earth ;  the  Eternal  has  not 
commanded  me  to  curse  thee ;  peace  be  to  thy 
ashes. 

Upon  this  place,  too,  war  laid  its  heavy  mailed 
hand.  It  was  destroyed,  history  tells  us,  in  1420. 
Margaret  of  Clisson  made  an  attack  upon  John  V., 
duke  of  Brittany,  and  wars  followed.  Here  in  the 
elevnth  century,  stood  a  small  fortified  chateau, 
which  commanded  the  town.  The  chateau  was  on 
the  highest  part  of  this  hill,  overlooking  the  narrow 
river  Sangueze.  This  name  was  given  to  the  river,  be- 
cause it  was  often  died  with  the  blood  of  the  combat- 
ants who  fought  upon  its  banks.  Many  a  time  the 
blushing  stream  carried  along  to  the  inhabitants  be- 
low evidence  of  a  hard-fought  battle  between  the  Bre- 
tons and  the  English. 

In  this  chateau,  in  the  year  1079,  Peter  Abelard 
was  born.  Philip  I.  was  king  of  France,  and  Hoe'l 
IV.  was  duke  of  Brittany.  Many  more  kings  and 
dukes  were  then  upon  the  earth,  but  the  sun  will  prob- 
ably shine  to-morrow,  if  their  names  are  not  mention- 
ed. Beranger,  the  father  of  Peter  Abelard,  was  lord 
of  the  chateau,  and  the  name  of  his  wife  was  Lucie.* 

*  See  second  paragraph  of  the  Historia  Calamitatum,  or  the 
first  letter  of  Abelard.  Guizot  gives  a  different  interpreta- 
tion ;  see  JEssai  Hutoriqm  sur  Abailard  et  Heloise,  p.  XL 


18  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Peter  was  the  first-born  child.  There  in  that  chateau 
on  the  hill,  above  the  river,  often  reddened  with  the 
brave  blood  of  warriors, — in  the  chateau  that  command- 
ed the  little  town  of  Pallet,  once  more  was  manifest- 
ed the  continually  recurring  miracle  of  life.  A  new 
flower  of  humanity  bloomed  upon  the  banks  of  the 
stream  whose  dyed  waters  often  told  the  tale  of  death. 
Has  that  young  life  no  interest  for  thee  ?  Then  thou 
art  still  a  sleeper ;  the  mystery  of  things  has  never 
laid  an  awakening  shadowy  hand  upon  thy  soul.  A 
young  mother's  heart  was  there  bursting  with  joy, 
while  the  propitious  fates  kept  closely  veiled  the  un- 
happy future.  Who  but  a  father  knows  what  was  the 
meaning  of  Beranger's  silence,  and  self-satisfied  look. 
Two  more  sons  and  a  daughter  were  given  to  them, 
but  the  experience  of  clasping  to  their  bosoms  a  first- 
born could  never  be  repeated. 

There  nature  made  an  effort,  once  more,  to  produce 
a  man.  Millions  of  efforts  she  makes,  but  in  every 
instance  she  fails  as  well  as  succeeds.  A  perfect  man 
she  never  produces,  and  therefore  always  fails.  She 
never  fails  in  making  a  good  attempt,  and  therefore  al- 
ways succeeds.  The  perfect,  or  ideal  man,  the  stand- 
ard of  which  nature  in  every  instance  comes  short, 
is  the  type  of  the  unity  of  the  soul,  while  nature's  fail- 
ure in  different  degrees,  produces  variety  in  unity 
Her  method  is  simple,  her  operations  are  manifold. 
She  proceeds  in  every  thing  else,  as  she  does  with 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  19 

man.  She  is  infinitely  economic,  and  at  the  same  time 
infinitely  prodigal.  The  child  Abelard  had  one  mean- 
ing for  his  parents,  another  for  the  world,  and  another 
for  Deity.  His  history  was,  no  doubt,  already  written 
in  the  quality  of  his  infant  blood,  and  the  structure  of 
his  infant  brain ;  but  we  must  follow  him,  and  see  in 
what  manner  he  will  coin  himself  into  real  acts  in  the 
mint  of  life.  His  good  and  his  evil  deeds  will  inter- 
pret for  us  ours,  and  may  make  us  wiser  and  better. 

Here,  among  the  lords  of  Pallet,  sleeps  Beranger ; 
but  far  from  here,  in  a  more  frequented  place,  we  shall 
find  the  tomb*  of  Abelard,  to  which  lovers,  both  for- 
tunate and  unfortunate,  still  pilgrim. 

*  See  the  Notice  Hi&lorique,  etc.,  par  M.  Alex.  Lenoir,  im- 
prime'e  a  Paris  en  1815,  p.  4,  et  seq. 


20  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


in. 

LOGICAL  KNIGHT-ERRANTRY. 

"  Tis  not  in  man, 

To  look  unmoved  upon  that  heaving  waste, 
Which,  from  horizon  to  horizon  spread, 
Meets  the  overarching  heavens  on  every  side, 
Blending  their  hues  in  distant  faintness  there. 

uvTis  wonderful! — and  yet,  my  boy,  just  such 
Is  life.    Life  is  a  sea  as  fathomless, 
As  wide,  as  terrible,  and  yet  sometimes 
As  calm  and  beautiful.    The  light  of  heaven 
Smiles  on  it;  and  'tis  decked  with  every  hue 
Of  glory  and  of  joy.    Anon  dark  clouds 
Arise ;  contending  winds  of  fate  go  forth ; — 
And  hope  sits  weeping  o'er  a  general  wreck. 

"  And  thou  must  sail  upon  this  sea,  a  long 
Eventful  voyage.    The  wise  may  suffer  wreck, 
The  foolish  must." 

THE  father  of  Abelard  before  commencing  the  occu- 
pation of  arms,  had  received  some  instruction,  and 
never  lost  a  taste  for  letters.*  He  was  desirous  that 
the  military  education  of  his  sons  should  be  preceded 
by  some  intellectual  culture.  Love  for  his  first-born, 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  par  M.  de  Remusat,  p.  8. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  2\ 

inspired  him  with  particular  care  for  the  instruction 
of  that  son.  The  bright,  fair  boy  more  than  answered 
the  hopes  of  his  parent.  He  early  showed  a  subtlety 
of  mind  that  promised  a  glorious  future,  and  a  bril- 
liant career.  As  he  increased  in  strength  and  years, 
the  bias  for  letters,  that  had  been  given  by  his  father, 
also  increased.  He  renounced  a  military  life,  and 
abandoned  to  his  brothers  his  inheritance,  and  his 
right  of  primogeniture.  Philosophy  first  wins  the 
passionate  love  of  the  beautiful  brilliant  boy,  and 
never  will  she  let  go  her  strong  hold  upon  his  fiery 
heart.  He  abandons  Mars  for  Minerva,  and  will 
write  his  history  with  tears  instead  of  blood.  Dear, 
fair-haired,  beautiful-browed  boy,  thou  dost  not  yet 
know  the  cost  of  wisdom ;  other  years  shall  teach  thee 
that  it  must  be  paid  for  in  the  fusion  of  the  brain, 
over  the  burning  of  the  heart !  And  what,  if  a  vase 
of  ashes  shall  at  length  take  the  place  of  thy  heart,  and 
thy  brain  congeal  to  stone !  With  thee,  also,  fate 
opens  an  account ;  take  what  thou  wilt,  but  payment 
thou  shalt  not  escape,  even  to  the  uttermost  farthing. 
Choose  thy  principles  of  action,  but  know  that  thou 
must  abide  the  results. 

Abelard  was  a  real  Breton.*     Every  man  must 
inherit  his  country  and  his  times.     In  arms  and  in 

*  Ouvr.  ined.  <T Abelard,  parM.  V.  Cousin,  Dialectic,  p.  222 
et  591. 


22  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

philosophy,  the  Bretons  have  always  manifested  a 
character  of  unconquerable  resistance ;  obstinate  firm- 
ness, and  fearless  opposition.  The  true  Breton  is  a 
compound  of  the  Greek  and  the  Celt.  Pelagius*, 
the  first  churchman  who  was  an  avowed  champion 
of  liberty,  who  provoked  the  attacks  of  St.  Augustine 
and  St.  Jerome,  who  denied  original  sin,  and  would 
not  admit  the  doctrine  of  redemption,  who  uncon- 
sciously would  have  robbed  Christianity  of  her  piety 
and  her  heart,  the  purity  of  whose  life  was  regarded 
by  the  fathers  in  the  church,  as  increasing  the  danger 
of  his  Jieretical  doctrines  ;  this  giant,  as  he  is  described 
by  one  of  his  opponents,  with  the  strength  of  Milo  of 
Crotona, — who  spoke  with  labor  yet  with  power,  was 
a  native  of  Brittany,  a  man  of  the  sea-shore,  as  his 
name  implies,  of  that  shore  where  the  sea  wails  for 
ever,  and  beats  as  it  were  upon  the  heart  of  the  be- 
holder, imparting  to  it  her  own  untamable  energy, 
and  unsubduable  spirit  of  freedom.  Descartes,  who 
philosophized  with  as  much  intrepidity  as  he  fought 
under  the  walls  of  Prague,*  was  a  Breton.  By  the 
strong-breasted  and  hard-headed  Bretons,  the  North- 
men and  the  English  again  and  again  were  repulsed. 
Believers  and  unbelievers,  orators  and  poets,  Brittany 
has  produced.  The  last  exclamation  heard  at  Water- 

*  St.  Augustin,  t.  xii.  diss.  de  Primis  Auct.  Haer.  Pela- 
gianae. 

f  M.  Cousin's  History  of  Modern  Philosophy,  t.  L,  p.  44. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  23 

loo,  it  is  said,  was  uttered  by  a  Breton, — "  The  guard 
dies,  but  does  not  surrender"*  Abelard  has  the 
blood  of  his  Breton  mother  in  his  veins.  Mars  he 
has  renounced,  but  for  the  goddess  of  wisdom  he  will 
fight,  with  such  arms  as  she  will  permit.  To  the 
science  of  dialectics,  the  art  of  intellectual  warfare, 
he  devotes  himself,  preferring  a  logical  combat  to 
a  conflict  of  arms ;  preferring  to  triumph  over  a  re- 
futed rather  than  a  slaughtered  enemy.  Have  a  care, 
brave  boy,  thy  brain  is  not  the  whole  of  thee ;  thy 
soul  is  larger  than  thy  warlike  logic. 

Still  a  mere  lad,  Abelard  availed  himself  of  every 
opportunity  to  engage  in  the  contests  of  reasoning. 
Such  was  his  natural  ability,  and  such  his  acquired 
skill,  that  no  champion  could  be  found  in  the  neigh- 
borhood to  stand  before  him.  Like  a  fearless  knight, 
paving  the  paternal  mansion,  he  went  from  province 
to  province,!  searching  for  masters  and  adversaries, 
marching  from  controversy  to  controversy,  eager  to 
enter  the  lists  for  a  dialectic  tilt,  putting  lance  in 
rest,  with  or  without  provocation,  unhorsing,  beardless 
as  he  was,  every  logical  combatant.  He  was  a 
peripatetic,  whose  walk  extended  from  end  to  end  of 
the  kingdom.  He  was  a  real  logical  knight-errant, 
every  where  seeking  philosophic  adventures. 

*  Michelet :  Histoire  de  France,  1.  iii. 
f  The  Guizot  edition  of  the  Abelard  and  Heloise  letters : 
the  first  letter  of  Abelard,  p.  5. 


24  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OP 

In  the  eleventh  century,  dialectics  were  called  an 
art.*  The  one  who  was  skilled  in  dialectics  was 
called  a  master  of  arts, — a  title  which  is  still  in  use. 
This  art  rivalled  theology  in  importance,  and  we 
might  add,  with  a  little  exaggeration,  in  power.  The- 
ology sometimes  consented  to  be  served  by  dialectics, 
but  always  showed  signs  of  uneasiness  when  in  the 
presence  of  her  subtle  foe.  The  former  was  based 
upon  authority;  the  latter  demanded  an  exercise  of 
free  thought.  Mother  Church  has  always  hated  and 
cursed  every  independent  thinker,  so  it  is  necessary  for 
thee,  thou  youthful  knight-errant  of  logic,  to  beware. 
Authority!  gives  thee,  on  the  one  hand,  the  premises, — 
on  the  other,  the  conclusions ;  it  will  not  be  safe  to 
question  the  former,  nor  to  transcend  the  latter. 
Talk  as  it  may  please  thee  about  genus,  species,  dif- 
ference, property,  and  accident ;  about  categories  ot 
predicaments ;  about  the  universal  principles  of 
language ;  about  reasoning  and  demonstration  ;  about 
the  rules  of  division ;  about  the  science  of  discussion 
and  refutation, — go  from  premises  to  conclusions  by 
what  route  thou  wilt,  but  do  not  rashly  venture  fur- 
ther ;  within  this  charmed  circle  it  is  permitted  thee 
to  obey  reason  and  God ;  out  of  it  close  thy  clear  eye, 
and  follow  the  voice  of  the  siren  that  calls  thee  to 


*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  5. 

f  M.  Cousin :  His.  Ph.,  t.  H,  lecture  ix. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  25 

her  bosom.  It  is  hard  I  know,  but  upon  no  other 
condition  shalt  thou  have  any  fellowship  with  thy 
generation.  It  may  be,  some  German  will  hereafter 
journey  far  to  listen  to  thy  eloquent  voice,  whose 
descendant,  in  a  more  propitious  age,  shall  conquer 
for  men  the  privilege  of  obeying  God.  Go  on,  then, 
in  thy  logical  knight-errantry ;  thus  unconsciously 
shalt  thou  teach  others  to  freely  think  and  freely  act, 
Aristotle,  Porphyry,  and  Boethius,  cannot  afford  thee 
the  best  of  mental  nutriment,  and  thou  art  not  skilled 
to  read  nature  and  the  soul ;  yet,  if  thou  wilt  perse- 
vere, all  the  men  of  thy  times  shall  soon  be  left  be- 
hind. I  fear  thou  art  sadly  neglecting  one  book,  but 
never  mind  now,  Mother  Church  will  not  curse  thee 
for  that. 

Abelard,  in  the  course  of  his  philosophic  adven- 
tures, must  have  met  with  the  celebrated  John*  Rosce- 
lin,  who  first  pushed  nominalism  to  its  extreme  con- 
sequences. In  1092,  when  Abelard  was  twelve  years 
of  age,  the  doctrine  of  Roscelin  had  been  condemned 
by  a  council  held  at  Soissons.  Denying  the  reality 
of  universals,  it  seems,  endangered  some  of  the  dog- 
mas of  the  Church.  St.  Anselm,  Abbe  of  Bee, 
in  Normandy,  who  was  highly  esteemed  among  the 
religious  orders,  and  enjoyed  a  great  reputation  as  a 
philosopher,  who  was  expecting  to  succeed  Lanfranc 

*  M.  Cousin :  Introduction  to  the  Ouvr.  ined.  d'Ab.,  p.  40. 

2 


26  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

as  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  had  from  the  beginning 
supported  realism  against  the  nominalism  of  Roscelin. 
Anselm  served  the  Church  and  gained  the  object  of 
his  ambition.  Roscelin  sought  for  the  true  in  itself, 
and  was  banished.  We  do  not  know  precisely  when, 
or  where,  or  how  Roscelin,  and  Abelard  met.  They 
were  brother  Bretons,  and  perhaps  thought  it  were  not 
best  for  Greek  to  encounter  Greek.  Abelard  heard 
the  lectures  of  Roscelin,  who  was  then  canon  of  Com- 
piegn,  and  probably  carried  away  in  his  retentive 
memory  the  arguments  that  were  used  to  substantiate 
a  new  system. 

Thus  are  spent  the  youthful  days  of  Abelard. 
Philosophy  he  is  serving  with  the  devotion  of  a  true 
lover ;  but  time  shall  teach  him  that  Life  cannot  be 
fathomed  by  any  plummet  of  Thought. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  27 


IY. 

AN  EPISODE :  THE  FIRST  CRUSADE. 

WHILE  Abelard  was  pursuing  his  philosophic  ad- 
ventures. Peter  the  Hermit  was  preaching  the  first 
crusade.  The  young  logical  knight-errant  did  not 
seem  to  be  affected  by  the  movement  that  was  convuls- 
ing all  France,  nearly  all  Europe.  Like  a  true  phi- 
losopher, he  was  unmindful  of  every  thing  that  did  not 
pertain  to  thought,  to  the  everlasting  principles  of 
mind. 

The  first  crusade — all  the  other  crusades  were 
only  repetitions  or  imitations  of  that — was  the  great- 
est movement  of  the  Middle  Age.  The  preaching  of 
Peter  the  Hermit  in  the  year  1095  was  not  its  begin- 
ning. It  had  its  origin  in  one  of  the  constituent  prin- 
ciples of  the  society  of  the  times.  Ideas  are  at  the 
basis  of  every  human  organization,  whether  in  church 
or  in  state.  Modern  society  has  taken  the  place  of  that 
of  the  Middle  Age,  because  the  ideas  of  men  have 
changed.  Belief  in  the  benefit  of  pilgrimages  and 
crusades  was  one  of  the  characteristics  of  those  times. 


28  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Man's  condition  of  being  on  this  planet  is  that  of  a 
pilgrimage.  Each  age  has  its  place,  to  which  it  joy- 
fully, yet  often  painfully,  wanders.  Wearily,  wearily 
journeys  the  Arab  to  Mecca.  Cold  is  the  heart  of  that 
Christian  who  has  never  desired  to  gaze  upon  the  tomb 
of  his  Redeemer.  In  the  middle  age,  pilgrims,  with 
staff  in  hand,  journeyed  to  Jerusalem,  willing  to  en- 
dure any  fatigue,  braving  dangers,  bearing  humilia- 
tions. "  Happy  he  who  returned  !  Happier  still  he 
who  died  near  the  tomb  of  Christ,  and  who  could  ex- 
claim in  the  presumptuous  language  of  a  writer  of  the 
time,  '  Lord,  you  died  for  me,  I  die  for  you.' " 

The  pilgrimages  to  Jerusalem  commenced  about 
the  year  1000.  At  first  the  pilgrims  were  kindly  re- 
ceived by  the  Arabs,  and  soon  their  numbers  became 
immense.  "  About  the  same  time  so  countless  a  mul- 
titude began  to  flock  from  every  quarter  of  the  globe, 
to  the  sepulchre  of  our  Saviour  at  Jerusalem,  such  as 
no  man  could  before  hope  for — the  common  people 

middling  classes kings  and  counts bishops 

....  many  nobles,  together  with  poorer  women ....  It 
was  the  heartfelt  wish  of  many  to  die  before  they  re- 
turned home."  *  When  the  Caliph  Hakem,  the  son  of  a 
Christian  woman,  pretended  to  be  the  incarnation  of  the 
Divinity,  Christians  and  Jews  were  alike  persecuted  by 

*  Pierre  D'Auvergne,  ap.  Raynouard,  Choix  de  Poesies 
des  Troubadours,  iv.  115. — Rad.  Glaber,  L  iv.  c.  6,  ap.  Scr.  R. 
Ser.  x.  50.  Quoted  by  Michelet. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  29 

him.  The  former  persisted  in  believing  that  the 
Messiah  had  come,  and  the  latter  persisted  in  believ- 
ing that  he  was  to  come.  Both,  consequently,  oppos- 
ed the  pretensions  of  the  Caliph  Hakem.  By  his 
command,  no  one  could  approach  the  holy  sepulchre 
except  on  the  condition  of  defiling  it.  The  danger 
increased,  and  the  desire  to  visit  Jerusalem  also  in- 
creased. Whole  armies  of  pilgrims  sometimes  failed 
to  reach  the  sepulchre.  There  often  remained  only  a 
few  worn-out  survivors,  to  tell  of  the  hardships  and 
heroic  death  of  their  companions,  thereby  exciting 
others  to  undertake  the  same  perilous,  yet  glorious 
journey.  At  length,  in  the  last  quarter  of  the  eleventh 
century,  the  Turks  obtained  possession  of  Jerusalem 
and  massacred  Christians  and  Alides, — all  believers 
in  the  incarnation. 

Shall  pilgrimages  to  the  holy  city  cease  then? 
Will  Christian  Europe  incur  the  penalty  of  leaving 
the  Redeemer's  sepulchre  in  the  hands  of  infidels  ? 
No  ;  the  invasion  of  the  East  must  be  re-enacted  in  a 
vaster  form,  and  for  the  realization  of  a  loftier  idea. 
The  Greeks  invaded  Asia  for  the  purpose  of  conquest, 
for  the  purpose  of  extending  their  civilization.  The 
cause  of  the  Past  and  the  cause  of  the  Future  then 
met,  but  the  ideas  that  animated  both  sides  were  po- 
litical ideas,  merely  those  of  Empire.  In  the 
Middle  Age  the  East  and  the  West  must  again  meet, 


30  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

again  must  draw  the  sword,  but  a  religious  principle 
lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  contest. 

When  Peter  the  Hermit  began  to  preach  the  cru- 
sade, western  Europe  was  ripe  for  the  movement. 
France  was  the  seat  of  the  greatest  excitement.  Ur- 
ban II.,  who  was  then  pope,  was  a  Frenchman.  In 
France  the  whole  populace  was  ready  to  take  up  arms. 
Four  hundred  bishops  or  mitred  abbots  were  present 
at  the  Council  of  Clermont.  "  The  lower  order  of 
people,"  says  a  cotemporary,*  "  destitute  of  resources 
but  very  numerous,  attached  themselves  to  one  Peter 
the  Hermit,  and  obeyed  him  as  their  master,  at  least 
so  far  as  matters  passed  in  our  country.  I  have  dis- 
covered that  this  man,  originally,  if  I  mistake  not, 
from  the  city  of  Amiens,  had  at  first  led  a  solitary  life 
under  the  habit  of  a  monk,  in  I  know  not  what  part 
of  Upper  Gaul.  He  set  out  thence,  by  what  inspira- 
tion I  am  ignorant ;  but  we  then  saw  him  traversing 
the  streets  and  burghs,  and  preaching  every  where. 
The  people  surrounded  him  in  crowds,  overwhelmed 
him  with  presents,  and  proclaimed  his  sanctity  with 
such  great  praises,  that  I  do  not  remember  like  hon- 
ors having  been  rendered  any  one.  He  was  very 
generous  in  distributing  whatever  was  given  him.  He 
brought  back  to  their  husbands  wives  who  had  wrong- 
ed them,  not  without  adding  gifts  from  himself,  and  re- 

*  Guibert :  Nov.  1.  ii.  c.  8.     Quoted  by  Michelet 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  31 

stored  peace  and  a  good  understanding  between  those 
who  had  been  disunited,  with  marvellous  authority.  In 
whatever  he  did  or  said,  there  seemed  to  be  something 
divine  in  him,  so  that  they  would  even  pluck  the  hairs 

out  of  his  mule,  to  keep  as  relics He  wore  only  a 

woollen  tunic,  and  above  it  a  cloak  of  coarse  dark 
cloth,  which  hung  to  his  heels.  His  arms  and  feet 
were  naked  ;  he  ate  little  or  no  bread  ;  and  supported 
himself  on  wine  and  fish." 

Every  one  mounted  the  red  cross  upon  his  shoul- 
der, and  some  imprinted  the  mark  of  the  cross  on 
themselves  with  a  red-hot  iron.  Every  body  was 
seized  with  the  crusade  mania.  The  ties  of  kindred 
and  the  love  of  country  were  forgotten.  "  Thus," 
says  the  one  from  whom  we  have  quoted,  "  was  ful- 
filled the  saying  of  Solomon, — '  the  locusts  have  no 
king,  yet  go  they  forth  all  of  them  by  bands.'  These 
locusts  had  not  soared  on  deeds  of  goodness  so  long 
as  they  remain  stiffened  and  frozen  in  their  iniquity ; 
but  no  sooner  were  they  warmed  by  the  rays  of  the 
sun  of  justice,  then  they  rose  and  took  their  flight. 
They  had  no  king.  Each  believing  soul  chose  God 
alone  for  his  guide,  his  chief,  his  companion  in  arms. 
Although  the  French  alone  had  heard  the  preaching 
of  the  crusade,  what  Christian  people  did  not  supply 
the  soldiers  as  well  ?  . . . .  You  might  have  seen  the 
Scotch,  covered  with  a  shaggy  cloak,  hasten  from  the 
heart  of  their  marshes. 


32  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

" ....  I  take  God  to  witness,  that  there  landed  in 
our  parts  barbarians  from  nations  I  wist  not  of; 
no  one  understood  their  tongue,  but  placing  their 
fingers  in  the  form  of  a  cross,  they  made  a  sign  that 
they  desired  to  proceed  to  the  defence  of  the  Christian 
faith. 

"  There  were  some  who  at  first  had  no  desire  to 
set  out,  and  who  laughed  at  those  who  parted  with  their 
property,  foretelling  them  a  miserable  voyage,  and 
more  miserable  return.  The  next  day,  these  very 
mockers,  by  some  sudden  impulse,  gave  all  they  had 
for  money,  and  set  out  with  those  whom  they  had  just 
laughed  at.  Who  can  name  the  children  and  aged 
women  who  prepared  for  war  ;  who  count  the  virgins 
and  old  men  trembling  under  the  weight  of  years  ?  . . . 

You  would  have  smiled  to  see  the  poor  shoeing 

their  oxen  like  horses,  dragging  their  slender  stock  of 
provision  and  their  children  in  carts ;  and  these  little 
ones,  at  each  town  they  came  to,  asked  in  their  sim- 
plicity— '  Is  not  that  the  Jerusalem  that  we  are  going 
to?'  " 

Walter  the  Penniless,  and  the  German  Gottes- 
chalk,  also  had  their  followers.  While  the  princes, 
barons,  and  knights,  were  slowly  putting  their  armies 
on  the  march,  the  multitude,  countless  in  number,  under 
the  guidance  of  Peter  the  Hermit,  began  to  descend 
the  valley  of  the  Danube.  Every  unfortunate  Jew 
that  happened  to  fall  in  their  way,  was  mercilessly 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  33 

slaughtered,  as  having  inherited  the  sin  of  crucifying 
the  Redeemer. 

The  crusade  has  now  left  France,  the  scene  of  our 
story,  and  we  cannot  pursue  it  further. 

Six  hundred  thousand  men  started,  bearing  the  cross. 
Europe  and  her  elder  sister  Asia,  the  West  and  the  East, 
met.  Jerusalem  was  taken.  But  what  became  of  the 
more  than  half  a  million  that  composed  the  great  army 
of  the  crusaders  ?  Their  route  through  Hungary,  the 
Greek  Empire,  and  Asia  Minor,  was  marked  by  their 
bones  ;  only  ten  thousand  returned  !  And  where  were 
the  little  ones  who  asked  at  each  town  on  their  way 
— "  Is  not  this  the  Jerusalem  that  we  are  going  to  ?  " 

Was  then  the  crusade  a  disaster  and  a  failure? 

We  cannot  here  speak  of  all  its  benefits.  Islam- 
ism,  that,  especially  on  the  side  of  Spain,  more  than 
once  had  invaded  Europe,  was  condemned  to  remain 
at  home,  among  her  Saracens  in  the  East.  Christian- 
ity, endowed  with  eternal  youth  and  beauty,  met  a 
daughter  of  earth,  and  pronounced  the  sentence  of  her 
decay.  The  men  of  Europe,  who  long  had  been  en- 
gaged in  warfare  among  themselves,  learned  the  great 
lesson  of  their  brotherhood  under  the  tuition  of  danger 
and  misery.  The  serf  and  the  lord,  learned  to  recog- 
nize each  other  as  belonging  to  the  same  humanity, 
when  fighting  side  by  side  in  a  common  cause,  under 
the  walls  of  Jerusalem,  or  dying  side  by  side  on  the 
pestilential  plain.  Thus  European  liberty  grew  up  in 


34  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

a  soil  enriched  by  the  blood  of  so  many  thousands  of 
men.  It  is  said  that  an  oriental  town  was  walled  with 
the  bones  of  the  crusaders.  Let  us  speak  of  them 
with  respect  and  gratitude,  for  we  are  to-day  drinking 
out  of  their  skulls  the  wine  of  freedom.* 

*  Michelet :  Histoire  de  France,  1.  iv.,  c.  iiL 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  35 


V. 


TO  PARIS.— PARIS  AT  THE  BEGINNING  OF  THE 
TWELFTH  CENTURY. 

IN  the  year  1100,  or  not  far  from  that,  Abelard 
journeyed  to  Paris.  Where  were  the  crusaders  ? 
Most  of  them  had  arrived  at  a  better  Jerusalem  than 
the  old,  we  hope.  Loyal  to  his  mission,  Abelard  did 
not  trouble  himself  about  the  work  of  others.  His 
pilgrimage  was  after  free  thought.  Reason  was  then 
buried,  and  the  armed  soldiers  of  Mother  Church  were 
keeping  watch  at  her  grave.  He  who  would  make  a 
pilgrimage  thither,  was  compelled  to  insult  the  divini- 
ty that  he  would  worship.  Reason,  however,  was  only 
sleeping  in  the  sepulchre,  was  waiting  for  a  resurrec- 
tion— was  waiting  to  reappear,  in  the  white  robes  of 
Christianity,  restored  to  its  original  nobility  through 
the  power  of  the  redemption.  0  lion-hearted  Breton 
youth  !  I  fear  thou  hast  undertaken  a  dangerous  pil- 
grimage, for  thou  wilt  encounter  worse  than  Saracen 
foes, — thy  own  passions  and  the  darkness  of  thy  times  ! 
Persevere  nevertheless ;  a  sight  of  the  shrine  which 


36  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

thou  seekest  shall  bless  thine  eyes,  but  its  capture  shall 
be  the  work  of  a  braver  than  Godfrey  of  Bouillon,  of  a 
heroic  Teuton,  who  shall  gather  up  in  his  own  experi- 
ence the  whole  antecedent  history  of  the  world,  who 
shall  fear  neither  Duke  George,  the  Council  at  Worms, 
nor  pope  Leo  X., — neither  men  nor  devils ;  who  shall 
obey  God  alone  and  emancipate  the  soul ! 

Abelard  was  little  more  than  twenty  years*  of  age 
when  he  arrived  in  Paris.  Although  he  was  so  young 
he  was  still  a  veteran  in  controversial  experience  and 
dialectic  skill.  Paris  was  then  the  centre  of  letters 
and  arts,  for  northern  and  western  Europe.  The  ar- 
dent young  logical  knight-errant  was  attracted  by  the 
city  which  contained  the  most  celebrated  schools,  and 
was  the  home  of  the  most  distinguished  professors  of 
philosophy. 

As  every  one  who  has  visited  Paris  knows,  and  as 
any  one  who  will  open  a  map  of  it  may  see,  there  is 
an  island  in  the  Seine,  at  the  centre,  which  is  called 
Cite.  When  Abelard  first  visited  Paris,  it  did  not 
extend  beyond  this  island,  f  It  was  joined  to  the  right 
bank  of  the  river  by  the  grand-pout  (great  bridge) 
and  to  the  left  bank  by  the  petit-pont  (small-bridge). 
Upon  this  famous  island  was  then  concentrated  all 


*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  8. 

f  Among  the  Documents  ined.  sur  1'hist.  de  France,  see 
Paris  sous  Philippe  le  Bel.     Vie  d'Ab.,  pp.  40 — ±4. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  37 

that  was  greatest  and  best  in  the  kingdom.  It  was 
the  seat  of  royalty,  of  the  church,  of  the  administration 
of  justice,  and  of  instruction.  On  the  left  bank  of  the 
river  arose  the  hill  whose  summit  was  crowned  with 
the  abbey  of  Sainte-G-enevieve.  On  the  right  bank,  be- 
tween the  ancient  churches  of  Saint-Germain-PAux- 
errois  and  Saint-G-ervais,  was  the  quarter  where  foreign 
merchants  dwelt.  Here  and  there  upon  the  neighbor- 
ing plains,  were  springing  up  establishments  of  piety  or 
learning,  destined  to  great  renown.  The  abbey  of 
Saint-Germain-des-pres,  on  the  west,  perpetuated  the 
memory  of  that  bishop  of  Paris  whose  fame  rivalled 
that  of  Saint-Grermain-d'Auxerre.  Down  the  left 
bank  of  the  Seine,  in  the  neighborhood  of  this  abbey, 
where  the  school  of  Fine  Arts  and  the  University  now 
stand,  not  far  above  the  present  site  of  the  Palais  Bour- 
bon, was  the  playground  of  the  scholars  and  clerks  j 
thither  they  repaired,  to  engage  in  those  exercises  and 
rude  sports  that  were  fitted  for  the  robust  nature  of  the 
men  of  the  times  !* 

Towards  the  lower  end  of  the  island,  was  the  pal- 
ace of  the  early  French  kings.  On  the  end  of  the 
island,  between  the  palace  and  the  river,  was  the  gar- 
den of  the  palace.  It  was  not  much  like  the  modern 
gardens  of  Paris.  It  was  a  place  planted  with  trees, 
which  was  opened  on  certain  days  as  a  public  prome- 

*  Hist  Univ.  Paris,  t.  II.,  p.  750,  et  seq. 


88  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

nade.  In  front  of  the  palace  was  the  ancient  church 
of  Notre-Dame, — an  imposing  structure,  although  very 
inferior  to  the  immense  church  which  has  succeeded 
it.  When  one  would  speak  a  word  about  Notre-Dame 
he  remembers  Victor  Hugo's  romance,  and  remains 
silent.  "  There  is  one,"  says  Michelet,  "  who  has 
laid  such  a  lion's  paw  on  this  monument  as  to  deter 
all  others  from  touching  it ;  henceforward,  it  is  his, 
his  fief,  the  entailed  estate  of  Quasimodo — by  the  side 
of  the  ancient  cathedral  he  has  reared  another  cathe- 
dral of  poetry  as  firm  as  its  foundations,  as  lofty  as 
its  towers."* 

Where  the  Garden  of  the  Tuileries,  the  Champs 
Elysees,  and  the  Avenue  de  Neuilly  leading  out  to  the 
Arc  de  Triomphe,  now  are,  there  was  an  unbroken  marsh 
750  years  ago,  at  the  beginning  of  the  twelfth  century. 
Every  thing  changes  ;  the  earth  is  metamorphosed  un- 
der the  busy  hands  of  man.  At  the  period  of  which 
we  are  speaking  Paris  is  small,  still  she  is  the  cher- 
ished capital  of  the  nation.  Abelard  comes  up  from 
the  forests  and  the  villages  of  Brittany,  and  gazes  up- 
on her  for  the  first  time  with  wonder  and  delight. 
His  blood  flows  faster,  and  his  ambition  is  inflamed 
anew.  How  many  sons  of  genius  shall  follow  him — to 
fame  and  misery !  Dear,  deceptive,  gay,  graceful 


*  See  the  third  book  of  Victor  Hugo's  Notre-Daine  de 
Paris. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  39 

city !  thou  shalt  increase  in  wisdom  and  beauty,  in 
strength  and  sin;  thou  shalt  invite  the  lovers  of 
pleasure  from  the  ends  of  the  earth,  to  enjoy  thy 
charms ;  thou  shalt  drink  the  wine  of  poesy  and  wit, 
and  eat  the  food  of  learning,  and  take  the  lead  in  the 
world's  civilization  ;  thy  night  revels  shall  be  revolu- 
tions, and  thy  fair  bosom  more  than  once  shall  be 
drenched  with  the  blood  of  heroes  contending  for  thy 
smile  ;  thou  wilt  banish  thine  own  children  and  nourish 
those  that  come  unto  thee  from  afar ;  thou  shalt  be 
the  loved  and  the  envied  among  the  capitals  of  the  na- 
tions ;  but  the  rose  of  innocence  thou  wilt  not  wear 
upon  thy  ravishing  breast ;  thy  queenly  face  shall  fade, 
thou  shalt  at  length  sleep  with  thy  elder  sisters,  with 
Nineveh,  Athens  and  Rome  ;  the  hand  of  retribution 
shall  touch  thee,  and  through  long  years  of  mourning 
thou  shalt  decay ;  the  eyes  of  strangers  shall  gaze 
upon  thy  ruins,  and  foreign  feet  shall  tread  carelessly 
upon  thy  dust ! 


40  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


VI. 

'ABELARD  STUDIES  AT  THE  SCHOOL  OF  NOTRE- 
DAME,  AND  QUARRELS  WITH  HIS  MASTER, 
WILLIAM  OF  CHAMPEAUX. 

WHEN  Abelard  first  entered  the  capital  of  France,  he 
sought  the  celebrated  episcopal  school  of  Notre-Dame,* 
whose  master  was  the  famous  William,  of  Champeaux. 
There  was  then  no  University  of  Paris.  There  were 
in  the  city  many  schools,  however,  which  were  under 
ecclesiastical  supervision.  The  largest  and  the  most 
renowned  among  these  was  the  one  that  we  have  just 
named.  Students  flocked  to  Paris  from  every  part  of 
middle  and  western  Europe.  Thither  young  men  went, 
not  only  from  every  part  of  France  and  Gaul,  but 
also  from  England,  Germany  and  Italy.  The  in- 
struction at  the  episcopal  school,  as  in  a  modern 
German  University,  consisted  mostly  of  lectures. 
The  auditors  listened  to  the  lectures  of  the  master, 
then  talked  or  disputed  among  themselves. 

The  students  assembled  in  a  cloister,  not  far  from 
the  habitation  of  the  Bishop.     This  was  called  the 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  10. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  41 

cloister  of  Notre-Dame,  and  was  formed  by  an  in- 
closure  that  extended  from  the  Metropolitan  church 
to  the  garden  of  the  Archbishopric.* 

The  chief  of  this  school,  "William  of  Champeaux, 
was  Archdeacon  of  Paris.  He  taught  with  much 
success  and  eclat,  and  the  students  were  proud  of 
their  unrivalled  master.  He  excelled  in  dialectics, 
and  was  first  in  the  school  of  Notre-Dame  to  apply 
the  forms  of  logic  to  the  teaching  of  holy  things. 
William  of  Champeaux  was  therefore  the  first  to  in- 
troduce scholastic  theology  in  Paris,  f 

Abelard  soon  attracted  the  attention  of  his  master. 
A  teacher  always  loves  a  disciple,  who  understands 
him,  and  can  reproduce  him  with  skill ;  but  woe  to 
that  pupil  who  sets  up  any  notions  of  his  own.  The 
disciple,  in  order  to  please  his  master,  must  have  a 
genius  for  being  moulded  to  the  pattern  of  another 
mind.  Abelard  soon  distinguished  himself  among 
his  fellow  pupils.  His  intellect  had  already  been  some- 
what disciplined  by  his  dialectic  encounters,  and  many 
things  had  been  learned  in  the  various  provincial 
schools  that  he  had  visited.  By  nature  he  was  en- 
dowed with  a  rare  subtlety  of  understanding.  His 
speech  flowed  with  graceful  ease,  and  his  illustrations 
were  singularly  beautiful.  Of  course  he  was  praised 

*  Paris  ancien  et  moderne,  par  de  Marl&s,  1. 1.,  c.  i.,  p.  61, 
et  c.  ii.,  p.  139. 

f  Abelard's  Works :  Dialectic,  passim. 


42  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

by  his  teacher,  admired,  loved,  and  envied  by  the 
other  scholars.  Those  who  occupy  a  position  of  out- 
ward equality  with  us,  will  begin  to  hate  us  when  they 
are  compelled  to  acknowledge  our  superiority.  He, 
whose  life  is  a  continual  progress,  has  most  to  fear 
from  those  that  he  is  passing. 

Abelard,  as  it  seems,  was  only  waiting  to  fathom 
the  mind  and  to  comprehend  the  system  of  William  of 
Champeaux,  before  giving  him  battle.  He  separated 
himself  from  his  teacher  and  attacked  some  of  his  doc- 
trines. The  skilful  young  logical  knight-errant  more 
than  once  unhorsed  his  proud  master.  The  chief  of 
the  great  episcopal  school  of  Paris,  a  school  renowned 
among  distant  nations,  regarded  the  hardy  young  dialec- 
tician with  indignation  and  fright.  Some  of  his  fellow- 
students  looked  upon  him  with  jealousy  and  treated  him 
with  defiance ;  yet  others,  as  is  usually  the  case,  prob- 
ably looked  upon  him  as  a  hero,  and  secretly  wished 
him  success.  Force  of  mind  is  never  lost ;  place  the 
really  strong  man  where  you  will,  and  his  influence 
must  be  felt. 

The  soul  of  William  of  Champeaux  was  tortured  by 
the  presence  of  one  who  possessed  a  more  subtle  mind 
than  his  own.  In  a  church  in  the  city  of  Rouen,  "you 
see,  on  one  and  the  same  monument,  the  hostile  and 
threatening  figures  of  Alexandre  de  Berneval,  and  of 
his  pupil  whom  he  stabbed ;  their  dogs,  couchant  at 
their  feet  threaten  each  other  as  well ;  and  the  ill- 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  43 

starred  youth,  in  all  the  sadness  of  an  unfulfilled  des- 
tiny, wears  on  his  bosom  the  incomparable  rose  in 
which  he  had  the  misfortune  to  surpass  his  master." 
Young  artist,  beware  of  the  veteran  who  has  won  the 
confidence  of  men ;  thy  soul  may  be  tempered  with 
the  fire  of  genius,  yet  a  smile  of  triumph  might  make 
thee  an  enemy  whose  envy  would  supply  the  fuel  of 
his  hatred.  Young  divine,  who  art  ambitious  to 
serve  thy  master,  take  care  not  to  disturb  the  repose 
of  leaders  that  have  the  ear  of  the  public,  that  have 
outlived  their  energy,  that  are,  above  all,  impatient  of 
rivals ;  any  sin  may  be  forgiven  thee,  except  that  of 
excelling  too  much  in  eloquence  and  learning ;  hide 
thy  gifts  for  a  season,  and  do  not  question  the  right 
of  men  who  hold  stations  for  which  they  are  not  fitted. 
Every  man  is  in  danger  from  those  who  govern  in 
church  or  state,  just  in  proportion  to  his  power  to  dis- 
turb them.  Abelard  dated  his  misfortunes  from  the 
time  when  he  incurred  the  opposition  of  his  master 
and  his  fellow-pupils. 

At  that  period,  Abelard  was  full  of  vigor  and  hope,* 
and  did  not  succumb  to  adversity.  The  whole  field 
of  human  knowledge  was  open  before  him,  like  the 
world  before  a  conqueror.  He  sought  an  acquaint- 
ance with  the  mathematics,  astronomy  and  music,  for 
he  seemed  to  be  already  master  of  all  other  sciences. 

*  See  his  own  account  in  the  Historia  Calamitatum. 


44  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Mathematics,  through  want  of  natural  aptitude,  dislike, 
or  too  much  preoccupation,  he  did  not  succeed  in. 
He  was  ridiculed  by  his  mathematical  teacher,  and 
gave  up  the  study  in  thorough  disgust.* 

Whither  now  will  he  go?  what  course  will  he 
pursue  ?  Will  he  be  contented  with  knowing  what 
there  is  ready  at  hand  to  be  known,  or  will  he  show 
himself  a  man  by  exploring  new  fields,  and  exhibiting 
a  spirit  that  can  rely  upon  its  own  energies  ?  Be- 
tween him  and  the  master  of  the  great  school  of  Paris, 
there  shall  be  warfare  and  continual  enmity ;  other 
foes  await  him,  too,  who  shall  dig  the  sepulchre  of 
his  hopes,  and  build  the  charnel-house  of  his  joys  ! 

*  See  the  article,  by  Sir  Wm.  Hamilton,  in  the  Edinburgh 
Review,  for  January,  1836,  "  On  the  Study  of  Mathematics, 
as  an  Exercise  of  Mind ;  "  also  republished  in  his  "  Discus- 
sions on  Philosophy,  etc.,"  p.  257 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  45 


VII. 

MELUN  AND  CORBETL. 

ABELARD  was  not  in  the  least  disheartened  by  the 
envy  and  opposition  of  his  master  and  fellow-pupils. 
He  even  conceived  the  idea  of  becoming  a  master 
himself,  which,  in  his  times,  was  considered  as  a  har- 
dy notion  for  a  youth  only  twenty-two  years  of  age. 
He  had  that  which  is  always  a  characteristic  of  genius, 
self-reliance.  It  seemed  to  be  a  necessity  with  him, 
to  seek  to  realize  his  ambition.  He  was  not  content- 
ed to  indulge  in  dreams  of  glory,  without  putting  forth 
any  efforts  to  gain  the  object  of  his  desire ;  still  less 
did  he  passively  complain  about  the  wrongs  received 
at  the  hands  of  others,  and  succumb  to  misfortune. 
He  was  born  for  action  and  had  no  disposition  to  play 
the  whiner. 

Paris,  where  teaching  was  under  the  supervision 
of  the  head  of  the  school  of  Notre-Dame,  was  of 
course  interdicted  to  Abelard.  He  could  not  there 
erect  a  chair  of  philosophy,  and  lecture  to  those  who 
might  be  willing  to  receive  his  instruction.  He  turn- 
ed his  attention  to  Melun,  which  was  then  one  of  the 


4G  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

most  important  towns  of  France,  and  was  during  part 
of  the  year,  the  residence  of  the  royal  family.  The 
chief  of  the  episcopal  school, — the  master  whom  Abe- 
lard  was  abandoning,  had  the  penetration  to  perceive 
that  his  own  reputation  was  in  danger.  He  did  not 
wish  to  have  the  brilliant  pupil,  who  more  than  once 
had  silenced  his  teacher,  establish  a  rival  school  in  a 
neighboring  town.*  Although  William  was  on  the 
point  of  renouncing  his  chair  of  philosophy,  although 
he  was  about  to  quit  the  world  for  a  convent,  still  he 
used  every  effort  to  prevent  the  accomplished  youth 
from  commencing  a  course  of  instruction  in  a  place  so 
near  Paris.  He  hoped  at  least  to  drive  the  young 
Breton  farther  off. 

The  archdeacon  brought  to  bear  every  influence 
possible  to  have  Melun  also  interdicted  to  Abelard. 
His  secret  manoeuvres,  however,  were  of  no  use.  A 
young  man,  if  he  is  gifted  and  heroic,  has  the  sympathy 
of  the  public.  Men  like  to  see  an  old  leader  giving 
place  to  a  new.  The  genius  of  Abelard  was  exagger- 
ated on  account  of  his  extreme  youth.  His  antago- 
nist had  powerful  enemies  who  were  in  the  possession 
of  political  influence.  The  very  manner  in  which  a 
young  philosopher  was  pursued  by  an  envious  master, 
rendered  him  the  more  interesting  to  those  who  took 

*   Cousin's  Introduction  to  the  Ouvr.   ined.   d'Abelard, 
.  13. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  47 

his  part.  He  was  also  a  born  nobleman,  and  for  that 
reason  was  sympathized  with  the  more  by  the  court. 

Abelard  gained  the  object  of  his  wish  He  estab- 
lished his  school  at  Melun,  and  succeeded  in  his  teach- 
ing. His  renown  soon  threw  into  the  shade  the  nas- 
cent reputation  of  his  fellow-disciples,  and  the  estab- 
lished celebrity  of  his  former  teachers.  His  fame,  to 
use  his  own  language,*  "  effaced  all  that  the  masters 
of  art  had  little  by  little  acquired."  His  auditors 
were  numerous,  and  no  one  seemed  to  them  worthy  or 
capable  of  being  his  rival  in  the  art  of  dialectics. 

Becoming  more  and  more  confident  of  final  success, 
and  triumph  over  his  adversary,  he  removed  his  school 
from  Melun  to  Corbeil.  He  was  then  near  enough  to 
harass  the  school  of  Paris  with  his  arguments.  The 
young  knight-errant  of  logic,  was  not  contented  to  sat- 
isfy his  own  disciples,  it  was  necessary  for  him  to 
be  near  enough  to  tease  and  worry  his  enemy.  The 
philosophic  citadel  of  Paris  was  invested  by  one  whose 
heart  knew  no  fear,  whose  youthful  spirit  could  not  be 
conquered. 

Philosophy  as  well  as  war  has  its  heroes.  It  is  dif- 
ficult to  tell  whose  fame  is  the  greater,  that  of  Alex- 
ander or  that  of  Plato.  War  is  only  the  bloody  en- 
counter of  ideas.  The  great  hero  is  the  representative 
of  a  great  principle.  It  was  not  Caesar  that  conquered 

*  Epistola  Abselardi,  in  the  Guizot  edition  of  the  letters, 
p.  6. 


48  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

at  Pharsalia ;  in  the  person  of  Caesar  human  liberty 
conquered  Roman  liberty.  Ideas  were  at  war  in  Ab- 
elard  and  William  of  Champeaux.  The  battle,  which 
they  were  fighting  at  Paris,  may  have  been  fraught 
with  greater  consequences  to  the  world  than  that  of 
Arbela  or  that  of  Waterloo.  The  question  is  not  to 
be  decided,  by  giving  a  picture  of  events,  but  by  ex- 
amining the  ideas  that  were  contending  for  dominion. 
A  philosopher  surrounded  by  his  scholars,  does  not 
make  so  great  a  show  as  a  commander  followed  by  a 
brave  army,  but  the  importance  of  any  thing  in  this 
world  is  not  to  be  judged  by  external  appearance. 
The  Apostle  Paul  when  he  was  in  bonds  at  Rome,  no 
doubt  seemed  very  insignificant  in  comparison  with 
the  Emperor,  but  we  are  now  able  to  judge  whose  im- 
portance was  in  reality  the  greater.  "  Things  are  not 
what  they  seem,"  and  wise  is  he  who  looks  through 
the  appearance  at  the  reality.  That  philosophic  quar- 
rel at  Paris  in  the  first  years  of  the  twelfth  century, 
was  really  one  of  the  most  important  events  of  the 
Middle  Age.  It  was  the  cradle  of  scholasticism,  and 
the  first  decided  declaration  of  the  independence  of 
human  thought  in  modern  as  distinguished  from  ancient 
history.  After  centuries  of  darkness,  there  arose 
once  more  a  champion  of  unextinguishable  reason. 

"  As  all  Nature's  thousand  changes 
But  one  changeless  God  proclaim, 


ABELARD   AND    HELOISE.  49 

So  in  Art's  wide  kingdom  ranges 

One  sole  meaning,  still  the  same : 
This  is  truth,  eternal  Reason, 

Which  from  Beauty  takes  its  dress, 
And,  serene  through  time  and  season 

Stands  for  aye  in  loveliness." 


50  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


VIII. 

PHILOSOPHY  AKD  SICKNESS. 

A  RELIGION  is  the  main  source  of  every  civilization. 
Moral  force  governs  the  world,  directs  tbe  course  of 
history.  Religion  lies  at  the  foundation  of  the  great 
movements  of  society.  Christianity,  Mohammedanism 
and  Brahrninism,  are  means  of  civilization.  Asiatic 
civilization  is  as  good  as  Brahminism  can  make  it. 
If  society  ever  advances  there,  the  East  must  have  a 
new  religion.  The  Turks  and  Arabs  can  never  ad- 
vance until  they  lose  their  reverence  for  the  Prophet 
and  accept  a  better  faith.  The  civilization  of  Europe 
and  the  United  States,  is  the  best  in  the  world,  because 
it  is  the  growth  of  the  holiest  religion.  In  those  king- 
doms and  states  where  society  has  advanced  most,  we 
are  sure  to  find  the  best  form  of  Christianity. 

Now  the  great  fact  of  any  civilization  is  the  rivalry 
of  two  classes  of  men,  those  who  teach  the  doctrines 
of  the  prevailing  religion,  and  the  active  spirits  who 
pretend  to  judge  these  doctrines,  that  part  of  the  cler- 
gy who  would  perpetuate  authority  and  the  free-think- 
ers. In  the  first  centuries  after  the  establishment  of 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  51 

a  religion,  there  are  many  of  the  first  class  and  few  of 
the  second.  The  regular  clergy  will  be,  for  the  most 
part,  instruments  of  authority.  Philosophers  will  be 
few  in  numbers  and  the  objects  of  persecution.  In  the 
course  of  time,  free  thought  will  claim  its  lawful  domin- 
ion, and  will  throw  off  the  yoke  of  authority.  Reason  will 
question  faith,  and  examine  the  basis  upon  which  it  rests. 
The  first  meeting  of  reason  and  faith  is  usually  hos- 
tile. They  are  the  ideas  that  animate  contending  par- 
ties in  church  or  state.  Reason  is  radical,  faith  is 
conservative.  One  is  impatient  of  the  past ;  the  other 
fears  the  future.  The  former  relies  upon  the  intu- 
itions of  the  soul,  the  other  clings  to  sacred  books. 

They  are  both  right  and  both  wrong.  In  time  they 
learn  to  recognize  each  other  as  mutual  helpers,  but 
their  first  meeting  is  bloody.  The  great  civil  wars  of 
history  are  the  obstinate  encounters  of  these  two 
ideas. 

A  false  religion  cannot  stand  the  test  of  this  encoun- 
ter of  reason  and  faith.  Christianity  has  calmly  met 
the  questionings  of  philosophy,  without  losing  any- 
thing in  dignity  or  power.  Men  of  the  largest  minds 
are  the  readiest  to  accept  the  teachings  of  Christ. 
When  a  man  or  a  church  fears  to  meet  reason  face  to 
face,  we  may  be  sure  that  there  is  a  consciousness  of 
weakness.  He  whose  house  is  built  upon  a  rock  does 
not  fear  the  rains  and  the  floods.  Reason  is  the  best 
friend  of  Christianity,  and  constructs  for  her  a  sys- 


52  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tern  of  evidences  out  of  the  material  which  she  fur- 
nishes. 

Abelard  used  his  own  mind  as  a  test  of  truth,  and 
thus  unconsciously  became  a  champion  of  free  thought. 
With  him  and  William  of  Champeaux  commenced  a 
long  battle  between  reason  and  faith,  which  has  not 
ended  yet.  There  had,  no  doubt,  been  some  skirmish- 
ing in  the  previous  centuries,  but  in  the  episcopal 
school  of  Paris  commenced  the  real  struggle,  that  has 
already  lasted  many  centuries,  and  will  last  many 
more.  We  can  here  prophesy,  without  any  fear,  that 
Abelard  will  encounter  opposition  from  every  cham- 
pion of  authority,  in  Mother  Church,  that  he  may  meet 
during  his  whole  life.  We  are  far  from  wishing 
wholly  to  vindicate  Abelard,  but  he  was  the  first  decided 
Protestant  on  the  continent  of  Europe.  He  has  been 
followed  by  the  unfortunate  Albigenses,  by  Philip  le 
Bel,  Huss,  Luther,  Calvin,  Cranmer,  and  others. 

If  we  could  look  deep  enough  into  things,  perhaps 
we  might  find  more  significance  in  the  quarrel  of  a  hot- 
headed Breton  youth  with  his  master  at  Paris,  than 
in  any  battle  of  modern  times.  "  Above  all,"  says  a 
lynx-eyed  critic,  "  it  is  ever  to  be  kept  in  mind,  that 
not  by  material,  but  by  moral  power,  are  men  and 
their  actions  governed.  How  noiseless  is  thought ! 
No  rolling  of  drums,  no  tramp  of  baggage-wagons,  at- 
tends its  movements  :  in  what  obscure  and  sequestered 
places  may  the  head  be  meditating,  which  is  one  day 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  53 

to  be  crowned  with  more  than  imperial  authority  ;  for 
Kings  and  Emperors  will  be  among  its  ministering 
servants ;  it  will  not  rule  over  but  in  all  heads,  and 
with  these  its  solitary  combinations  of  ideas,  as  with 
magic  formulas,  bend  the  world  to  its  will !  The 
time  may  come,  when  Napoleon  will  be  better  known 
for  his  laws  than  for  his  battles ;  and  the  victory  of 
Waterloo  prove  less  momentous  than  the  opening  of 
the  first  Mechanics'  Institute." 

Soon  after  Abelard  went  to  Corbeil,  his  bodily 
powers  were  overcome  by  excess  of  work.  His 
strength  was  not  sufficient  for  the  labors  that  he  un- 
dertook, and  disease  was  the  result.  Even  in  his 
sickness,  he  impressed  those  who  attended  him  with 
the  greatness  of  his  talent  and  the  profundity  of  his 
erudition.  Hie  solus  sdvit  scibile  quicquid  erat* 
"  He  alone  knew  whatever  was  knowable,"  was  the 
great  and  laconic  eulogy  of  Coscilius  Frey  a  physi- 
cian of  the  Faculty  of  Paris. 

Time  alone  can  restore  strength  and  health  to  his 
worn  body.  His  philosophic  adventures,  his  studies, 
his  quarrels,  the  excitement  of  starting  his  new  school, 
his  lectures,  his  anxiety,  have  exhausted  his  vital  en- 
ergy, and  caused  a  debility  of  the  whole  nervous  sys- 
tem. What  will  he  do  ?  His  physician  advises  him 
to  breathe  the  fresh  air  of  the  country,  and  to  rest.  He 

*  Essay  Historique,  par  M.  et  Mme  Guizot,  p.  14. 


54  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

is  in  the  midst  of  strangers,  and  flatttery  will  not  sat- 
isfy his  hungry  heart.  Ambition,  "powerful  source  of 
good  and  ill,"  is  for  a  moment  forgotten,  and  memory 
of  home  returns.  What  magic  there  is  in  the  word 
home  !  It  unlocks  the  heart  that  refuses  to  yield  to 
any  other  key.  The  place  where  one  was  born,  is 
above  all  others  a  consecrated  spot  for  him  upon  earth. 
"When  sickness  comes,  our  thoughts  wander  to  the 
scenes  of  our  childhood,  and  we  remember  the  hand 
that  rocked  us  in  the  hour  of  helplessness.  When  old 
age  overtakes  us  we  wish  to  return  to  our  birth-place 
to  die ;  and  do  we  not  call  heaven  a  home  ! 

Abelard,  thy  father  will  welcome  thee  to  his  man- 
sion in  the  little  burgh  of  Pallet,  and  thou  hast  there 
a  mother,  and  a  sister,  whose  care  and  sympathy  will 
be  for  thee  full  of  healing.  Follow  the  promptings 
of  thy  heart ;  go  by  all  means ;  a  few  years  of  rest 
will  give  to  thy  pale  cheek  the  hue  of  health.  Paris 
will  not  forget  thee ;  fame  and  misfortune  will  come 
sufficiently  soon. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  55 


IX. 

ARGENTEUIL.— A  FAIR  PUPIL  OF  THE  NUNS. 

LET  us  pass  onto  the  year  1107.  Abelard  is  gain- 
ing strength  in  his  native  country,  and  is  doing  noth- 
ing of  particular  interest  to  us.  He  may  now  and 
then  have  a  dialectic  tilt  with  some  pugnacious  brother 
Breton,  he  may  visit  Roscelin  again ;  but  we  have  a 
new  character  to  introduce,  and  must  leave  him  until 
he  returns  to  the  capital  of  France. 

The  good  sisters  of  Argenteuil  have  under  their 
care  a  little  girl,  now  six  years  of  age,  that  is  destined 
to  become  the  most  renowned  of  her  sex.  Her  name 
in  the  far-off  centuries,  shall  be  enrolled  with  those  of 
Aspasia,  the  Countess  Matilda,  Joan  of  Arc,  and  St. 
Theresa  herself.  Above  all  others  she  shall  be  cele- 
brated for  her  learning,  her  love,  her  self-sacrificing 
spirit,  and  the  eloquence  of  her  letters. 

But  who  is  she  ?  what  is  the  land  of  her  birth  ?  who 
are  her  parents  ?  how  came  she  here  among  the  nuns 
of  Argenteuil  ? 

We  are  not  altogether  certain  about  her  name.  The 
daughters  of  the  convent  will  not  allow  us  to  question 


56  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

them  too  closely.*  A  learned  and  famous  lover  will 
pretend  that  her  name  is  derived  from  the  Hebrew 
word  Heloim,  which  is  one  of  the  names  of  the  Deity  ; 
but  lovers  always  say  and  do  insane  things,  and  we 
are  not  in  the  least  inclined  to  favor  such  a  presump- 
tuous etymology.  She  shall  be  known  by  the  name 
of  Heloise,  and  it  matters  not  what  the  nuns  call  her 
now. 

Paris  is  her  birth-place.  As  near  as  we  can  ascer- 
tain, she  was  born  in  1101,  the  next  year  after  Abe- 
lard's  arrival. 

There  seems  to  be  an  impenetrable  my stery  hanging 
over  her  parentage.  It  is  generally  admitted  that 
Fulbert,  the  canon  of  the  Cathedral  of  Paris,  is  her 
uncle.  Her  mother's  name  is  Hersenda,  but  the 
name  of  her  father  must  remain  unknown.  The  gen- 
eral impression  is  that  noble  blood  flows  in  her  veins, 
and  this  impression  is  doubtless  correct.  There  are 
certain  whispers  about  the  family  of  the  Montmorencys, 
bnt  if  Heloise  is  in  any  way  connected  with  those  feu- 
dal, fervent  loyalists,  it  is  probably  on  her  mother's 
side.  Some  silly  gossips  say  that  Fulbert  is  her 
father,  but  we  would  wager  the  kingdom  of  France, 
that  the  high-souled  Heloise  is  not  the  daughter  of 
such  a  piece  of  stupidity.  We  will  not,  however,  trou- 
ble ourselves  about  a  question  that  cannot  be  decided. 

*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  46. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  57 

The  little  girl  is  an  orphan,  and  poor,  and  we  will  love 
her  for  the  sake  of  her  childish  grace,  beauty,  activity 
and  brightness.  The  nuns — have  they  not  the  hearts 
of  women  ? — gently  kiss  her  high-arched  brow,  and  her 
little,  thin,  half-quivering  lips. 

Uncle  Fulbert,  the  Canon  of  Notre-Dame,  has  giv- 
en orders  that  she  be  instructed  in  the  best  possible 
manner.  Argenteuil  is  not  far  from  Paris,  the  canon 
can  easily  watch  the  progress  of  his  niece,  and,  more- 
over, his  authority  is  weighty  with  the  sisters  at  the 
convent.  They  need  no  watching  and  admonition, 
however,  for  woman  is  by  nature  faithful  to  her  trust, 
and  it  is  a  pleasure,  rather  than  a  task,  to  teach  so 
bright  a  pupil.  In  the  little  girl's  mystic  eye,  there 
is  a  nameless  power  that  fascinates  her  teachers. 
Every  nerve  seems  to  be  surcharged  with  vitality,  and 
her  touch  is  magnetic.  She  is  as  restless  as  the  breeze 
of  summer,  but  in  every  wayward  motion  or  act  there 
is  a  sweetness  and  a  grace  that  disarm  reproof.  She 
learns  without  effort  what  other  girls  of  her  age  can- 
not comprehend  at  all.  A  gleam  of  light  at  times 
seems  to  pass  over  her  fair  face,  and  she  utters  words 
whose  depth  of  meaning  astonishes  the  nuns  and  fills 
them  with  awe.  There  are  those  of  lofty  spirit,  whose 
presence  interprets  for  us  the  deep  words  of  Novalis, 
"  There  is  but  one  temple  in  the  world,  and  that  is 
the  body  of  Man.  Nothing  is  holier  than  this  high 
form.  Bending  before  men  is  a  reverence  done  to 


58  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

this  Revelation  in  the  flesh.  We  touch  Heaven,  when 
we  lay  our  hand  on  a  human  body."  Woe  to  the 
heaven-defying,  sacrilegious  man  that  shall  undertake 
the  robbery  of  such  a  temple  !  There  are  things  that 
may  not  be  forgiven  ;  there  are  gifts  for  the  accepted 
worshipper  that  must  not  be  touched  by  the  hands  of 
the  profane.  Yet,  0  mysterious  Life,  how  shall  we 
fathom  thy  meaning  !  Solemn  words  of  toleration 
admonish  us  to  pause  :  "  Judge  not,  that  ye  be  not 
judged." 

The  significance  of  these  half  mystic  words  will  ap- 
pear in  due  season ;  for  the  present,  we  will  leave  the 
dear  little  innocent  Heloise  in  the  care  of  the  pious 
sisters  of  Argenteuil.  To  look  beyond  the  place  where 
earth  and  sky  meet  is  impossible ;  with  us,  as  we 
go,  the  visible  horizon  will  move.  The  end  of  the 
rainbow,  it  is  said,  dips  in  a  vase  of  gold,  but  the 
treasure  always  recedes  when  we  seek  it.  The  avari- 
cious old  Fulbert  will  act  foolishly  enough,  but,  like 
Judas,  he  will  be  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  an  over- 
ruling Power,  and  play  the  part  destined  for  him  in 
the  general  progress  of  things. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  59 


X. 


THE  CONDITION  OF  WOMAN  AT  THE  BEGINNING  OF 
THE  TWELFTH  CENTURY. 

THE  state  of  society  may  always  be  determined  by 
ascertaining  the  condition  of  woman.  When  she  is 
the  companion  of  man,  and  her  relation  to  him  that  of 
equality,  then  we  may  be  sure  that  a  high  point  of 
rational  and  moral  development  has  been  attained. 
The  tardiness  of  civilization  has  always  been  chided 
by  the  complaints  of  woman.  She  represents  the  high- 
er sentiments,  disinterested  love,  the  benevolent  affec- 
tions, religion,  and  delicate  sensibility,  the  divinest 
part  of  humanity,  that  part  of  our  nature,  advance  to- 
wards the  realization  of  which  in  practical  life,  consti- 
tutes true  progress.  The  treatment  of  woman  indi- 
cates in  what  estimation  man  holds  the  most  beautiful 
portion  of  his  own  being.  When  men  are  brutes, 
women  will  be  slaves.  The  lords  of  creation  may  de- 
clare that  the  daughters  of  Eve  are  inferior  to  them- 
selves, but  such  a  declaration  only  shows  their  own 
weakness  and  defects.  He  who  places  a  light  estimate 
upon  things  of  highest  worth,  proclaims  his  own  igno- 


60  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

ranee  and  want  of  judgment.  Man  through  the  frail- 
ty of  woman  publishes  his  low  estimate  of  all  that  is 
holiest  in  the  relations  of  life.  Strike  out  from  exist- 
ence all  that  is  suggested  by  the  words,  mother, 
daughter,  sister,  wife,  and  no  man  would  care  to  live. 
One  half  of  humanity  is  man  ;  another,  yet  equal  half, 
is  woman.  He  who  speaks  lightly  of  woman,  curses 
the  hand  that  supported  him  in  the  hour  of  helpless- 
ness, pronounces  a  malediction  upon  the  fair  young 
being  that  with  mingled  reverence  and  trust  calls  him 
father,  utters  blasphemy  against  the  Being  who  has 
filled  with  disinterested  affection  the  bosom  of  her 
whose  heart  beats  with  blood  kindred  to  his  own,  and 
returns  hatred  for  love  to  her  who  has  bestowed  upon 
him  a  greater  gift  than  all  wealth  can  buy.  He  who 
knows  woman  in  all  of  these  relations,  however,  rarely 
speaks  evil  of  her. 

In  the  eleventh  century,  the  Holy  Roman  Empire 
was  overthrown  by  the  Holy  Roman  Pontificate,  and 
woman  was  cursed. 

The  feudal  world  corrupted  the  church,  and  the 
church  was  reformed  by  the  monks.  The  empire  was 
the  highest  type  of  the  feudal  world,  which  sleeps  its 
everlasting  sleep  with  the  house  of  Suabia.  The 
church,  once  reformed,  was  not  contented  until  she  de- 
stroyed her  corrupter. 

Under  feudalism,  the  eldest  son  inherited  the  estate, 
or  rather  the  estate  inherited  him.  The  only  dower 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  61 

of  the  daughter  was  the  chaplet  of  roses  and  her 
mother's  kiss.  All  but  the  eldest  inherited — the  wide 
realms  of  beggary.  "  Their  bed  is  the  threshold  of 
their  father's  house,  from  which,  shivering  and  a-hun- 
gered,  they  can  look  upon  their  elder  brother  sitting 
alone  by  the  hearth,  where  they,  too,  have  sat  in  the 
happy  days  of  their  childhood,  and  perhaps,  he  will 
order  a  few  morsels  to  be  flung  to  them,  notwithstand- 
ing his  dogs  do  growl.  Down  dogs,  down,  they  are 
my  brothers ;  they  must  have  something  as  well  as  you."* 
There  is  no  asylum  for  these  unfortunates,  except 
in  the  church.  "  Every  provident  father  secures  a 
bishopric,  or  an  abbey,  for  his  younger  sons.  They 
make  their  serfs  elect  their  infant  children  to  the 
greatest  ecclesiastical  sees.  An  archbishop,  only  six 
years  of  age,  mounts  a  table,  stammers  out  a  word  or 
two  of  his  catechism,  is  elected,  takes  upon  him  the 
cure  of  souls,  and  governs  an  ecclesiastical  province. 
The  father  sells  the  benefices  in  his  name,  receives  the 
tithes,  and  the  price  of  masses,  though  forgetting  to 
cause  them  to  be  said.  He  drives  his  vassals  to 
confession,  and  compelling  them  to  make  their  wills 
and  leave  their  property,  will  ye,  nill  ye,  gathers  the  in- 
heritance. He  smites  the  people  with  the  spiritual  sword 
as  well  as  with  the  arm  of  the  flesh,  and  alternately  fights 
and  excommunicates,  slays  and  damns,  at  pleasure. 

*  Histoire  de  France,  1.  4,  c.  ii. 


62  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

"  Only  one  thing  was  wanting  to  this  system — that 
these  noble  and  valiant  priests  should  no  longer  pur- 
chase the  enjoyment  of  the  goods  of  the  church  by  the 
pains  of  celibacy ;  that  they  should  combine  sacerdo- 
tal splendor  and  saintly  dignity  with  the  consolations 
of  marriage ;  that  they  should  enliven  their  family 
meals  with  the  sacrificial  wine,  and  gorge  their  little 
ones  with  consecrated  bread.  Sweet  and  holy  hopes, 
these  little  ones,  God  to  aid,  will  grow  up  !  They 
will  succeed,  quite  naturally,  to  their  fathers'  abbeys 
and  bishoprics.  It  would  be  hard  to  deprive  them  of 
the  palaces  and  churches ;  for  the  church  is  theirs, 
their  rightful  fief.  Thus  the  elective  principle  is 
succeeded  by  that  of  inheritance,  and  merit  gives  place 
to  birth.  The  church  imitates  feudalism,  and  goes 
beyond  it.  More  than  once  it  has  given  females  a  share 
of  the  spoil,  and  a  daughter  has  been  dowered  by  a 
bishopric.  The  priest's  wife  takes  place  by  him,  close 
to  the  altar  ;  and  the  bishop's  disputes  precedency 
with  the  count's."* 

Thus  writes  one  who  is  disposed  to  defend  the  celi- 
bacy of  the  priesthood,  who  believes  that  the  church 
could  never  have  reared  the  ceiling  of  the  choir  of  Co- 
logne cathedral,  or  the  arrowy  spire  of  that  of  Stras- 
bourg ;  could  never  have  brought  forth  the  soul  of 
St.  Bernard,  or  the  penetrating  genius  of  St.  Thomas, 

*  Histoire  de  France,  1.  4,  c.  ii 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  63 

if  her  soaring  aspirations  had  been  checked  by  the 
marriage  of  her  clergy.  We  will  not  even  condescend 
to  defend  a  divine  institution,  since  Paul,  a  higher  au- 
thority than  the  successor  of  St.  Peter,  has  recommend- 
ed that  a  bishop  be  the  husband  of  one  wife,  and  will 
persist  in  attributing  to  feudalism  and  the  spirit  of 
the  times  the  abuses  that  stain  the  history  of  the 
church.  The  courtesan,  Theodora,  raised  to  the  pope- 
dom  her  lover,  John  XI. ,  and  her  infamous  daughter 
Marozia,  did  as  much  for  Sergius  III.  Let  the  de- 
fenders of  the  Holy  Catholic  Church  remember  these 
and  a  thousand  other  things. 

A  monk  reformed  the  church,  and  laid  the  axe  at 
the  root  of  feudalism.  The  greatest  man  of  the  elev- 
enth century  was  the  Tuscan,  Hildebrand.*  He 
must  be  ranked  with  those  rare  and  mighty  spirits 
who  by  strong  will,  clear  insight,  and  untamable  ener- 
gy, effect  successful  revolutions.  Under  Gregory  VII. 
(Hildebrand),  the  papal  power  first  reached  the  point 
of  sovereignty. 

The  bold  monk  commenced  the  work  of  reform  by 
declaring  against  the  marriage  of  the  priests.  "  Al- 
ready, and  during  the  power  of  the  two  popes  who 
had  preceded  him  in  the  pontificate,  he  had  given 
out  that  a  married  priest  was  no  priest ;  and  great 
agitation  had  ensued.  An  active  correspondence  com- 

*  See  the  excellent  history  of  M.  Yillemain. 


64  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

menced,  leading  to  a  common  effort  on  the  part  of  the 
priests  ;  when,  emboldened  by  their  numbers,  they 
loudly  declare  that  they  will  keep  their  wives.  '  We 
prefer,'  they  said,  '  abandoning  our  bishoprics,  abbeys 
and  cures  :  let  him  keep  his  benefices.'  The  reform- 
er did  not  blench.  The  carpenter's  son*  did  not  hes- 
itate to  let  loose  the  people  on  the  priests.  In  all  di- 
rections, the  multidude  declared  against  the  married 
pastors,  and  tore  them  from  the  altar.  The  people 
once  given  the  rein,  a  brutally  levelling  instinct  made 
them  delight  in  outraging  all  they  had  adored,  in 
trampling  under  foot  those  whose  feet  they  had  kissed, 
in  tearing  the  alb,  and  dashing  to  pieces  the  mitre. 
The  priests  were  beaten,  cuffed,  and  mutilated  in 
their  own  cathedrals;  their  consecrated  wine  was 
drunk,  and  the  host  scattered  about.  The  monks 
pushed  on,  and  preached.  The  people  became  im- 
pregned  with  a  bold  mysticism,  and  habituated  to  des- 
pise form  and  dash  it  to  bits,  as  if  to  set  the  spirit  free. 
This  revolutionary  purification  of  the  church  shook  it 
to  the  foundation.  The  means  resorted  to  were  atro- 
cious  The  wild  anchoret,  Pietro  Damiani, 

traversed  Italy  with  curses  and  maledictions,  careless 
of  life,  and  stripping  bare,  with  pious  cynicism,  the 
turpitude  of  the  church.  This  was  to  mark  out  the 
married  priests  for  death.  Manegold,  the  theologian, 

*  Hildebrand  was  the  son  of  a  carpenter. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  65 

taught  that  the  opponents  of  reform  might  be  slain 

without  compunction The  church,  armed 

with  a  fierce  purity,  resembled  the  sanguinary  vir- 
gins of  Druidical  Gaul,  or  of  the  Tauric  Chersonesus."* 

Thus  did  man  curse  his  own  nature  in  the  person 
of  woman.  Strange  to  say,  the  noblest  female  of  the 
age,  the  chaste  and  high-souled  Countes's  Matilda,  was 
the  friend  and  helper  of  Hildebrand.  Such  friend- 
ship as  tjiat  which  existed  between  these  two  celebra- 
ted personages,  is  worthy  of  our  profoundest  admiration, 
but  we  may  safely  say,  that  God  has  not  designed 
that  a  whole  generation  of  anchorites  should  bring  the 
race  to  a  close.  "  In  the  same  manner  as  the  middle 
age  repulsed  Jews,  and  buffeted  them  as  the  murder- 
ers of  Jesus  Christ,  woman  was  held  in  disgrace  as 
the  murderess  of  mankind.  Poor  Eve  still  paid  for 
the  apple.  She  was  looked  upon  as  the  Pandora,  who 
had  let  loose  woes  upon  the  earth.'7 

It  would  be  interesting  to  trace  the  contest  between 
Hildebrand  and  the  Emperor,  between  the  reformed 
church  and  the  temporal  power,  but  such  a  digression 
would  lead  us  too  far  beyond  the  limits  of  our  subject. 

We  see,  then,  what  was  the  condition  of  woman  at 
the  close  of  the  eleventh  century,  and  consequently  at 
the  beginning  of  the  twelfth.  Poor  little  Heloise ! 
thou  dost  little  know  what  trials  await  thee.  A  few 

*  Michelet,  1.  4,  c.  ii. 


66  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

years  more,  and  thou  shall  encounter  the  world's  temp- 
tations, and  feel  the  heavy  weight  of  its  curse.  The 
tears  that  sometimes  flow  to  thy  large  eyes,  while  thy 
head  is  lying  upon  the  bosom  of  the  mother  abbess, 
are  mystic  prophets  of  long  years  of  sorrow,  but  in 
thy  blood  there  is  an  inborn  heroism  that  shall  defy 
the  maledictions  of  the  age,  and  proclaim  the  "  good 
time  coming,"  when  the  queenly  heart  of  woman  shall 
reign  in  harmony  with  the  kingly  brain  of  m%n. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  67 


XI. 

AN  UNWELCOME  AUDITOR,  LISTENS  TO  AN  OLD 
MASTER  IN  A  NEW  PLACE. 

NOT  far  from  the  ancient  city  of  Paris,  on  the 
southeast,  near  the  place  where  the  royal  botanical 
garden  now  is,  there  was  buried  the  remains  of  a  re- 
cluse, who  had  been  noted  for  his  piety.  Thither, 
William  of  Champeaux,  assuming  monastic  habit, 
retired,  in  the  year  1108.  He  was  followed  by  seve- 
ral of  his  disciples,  and  around  him  there  was  formed 
a  kind  of  voluntary  congregation  of  regular  clerks. 
This  place  afterwards  became  the  site  of  the  abbey 
of  Saint  Victor.* 

What  the  archdeacon's  motives  were  for  leaving  an 
elevated  post  in  the  church  of  Paris,  is  more  than  we 
can  tell.  His  chances  for  a  still  more  elevated  place 
in  the  church  were  greater  than  those  of  any  other 
man.  His  position  as  head  of  the  cathedral  school, 
it  is  said,  was  nearly  equivalent  to  the  first  rank  in 

*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  17. 


68  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

the  palace  of  the  king.  Perhaps  he  wished  to  com- 
mence a  life  of  peace  and  piety.  It  may  be  that  he 
hoped  to  find  a  shelter  against  the  storms  which  he  had 
sufficient  sagacity  to  foresee.  This  step  made  him  very 
popular  with  the  clergy,  for  they  admired  the  devotion 
and  humility  of  a  man  who  was  willing  to  leave  a  place 
of  emolument  and  honor  for  the  solitude  of  a  cloister. 
The  proud  and  ambitious  William  may  have  chosen 
that  route  to  the  episcopacy.  A  candidate  for  office 
likes  to  grasp  the  hands  of  mechanics  just  before  the 
election,  and  human  nature  is  the  same  at  all  times  and 
in  all  places. 

Hoc  vere  philosopari  est.  "  This  is  truly  acting 
the  part  of  a  philosopher,"  wrote  Hildebert,  the  cel- 
ebrated bishop  of  Manse,  afterwards  the  more  cele- 
brated archbishop  of  Tours.  He  exhorted  William 
not  to  renounce  his  lectures,  and  the  new  recluse 
followed  the  advice  of  his  distinguished  correspond- 
ent. Thus  was  commenced  the  great  school  of 
Saint  Victor,  which  has  played  an  important  part, 
especially  in  the  teaching  of  theology. 

William  was  soon  surrounded  with  pupils,*  and  his 
life  again  became  tranquil.  Destiny,  however,  has 
denied  him  repose;  he  belongs  to  the  cause  of  the 
past,  and  the  world  moves  on.  All  of  a  sudden,  in 
the  midst  of  one  of  his  lectures,  Abelard  reappears 

*  Epistola  Abselardi,  in  the  Guizot  edition,  p.  8. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  69  • 

among  his  pupils.  The  young  Breton  looks  older, 
and  stronger ;  the  glow  of  health  is  on  the  cheek  that 
a  few  years  since  was  so  pale  ;  there  is  new  fire  in  his 
thought-illumined  eye ;  he  seems  conscious  of  his  pow- 
er, and  his  face  wears  an  expression  of  one  knows  not 
what  settled  design.  Be  careful,  William,  or  thy 
pupils  will  observe  in  thee  an  uneasy  look  of  appre- 
hension ;  and  their  confidence  will  be  changed  to  dis- 
trust. What  does  the  belligerent  Abelard  want  here 
in  this  peaceful  retreat,  in  this  place  consecrated  by 
the  buried  bones  of  a  saint  ?  The  master  is  lecturing 
on  rhetoric,  and  he  wishes  to  receive  instruction.  It 
is  a  modest  and  flattering  request,  and  he  cannot  be 
denied.  Abelard  is  a  man  now,  and  may  not  be  so  un- 
courteous  as  to  dispute  his  master.  Perhaps  he  will 
be  contented  to  play  a  subordinate  part ;  and  will  thus 
reconcile  to  himself,  a  teacher  that  he  once  so  deeply 
offended.  "  The  boy  is  father  of  the  man,"  and  no 
such  thing  must  be  looked  for. 

The  pretended  pupil  soon  found  an  opportunity 
to  question  the  master.  As  we  have  already  seen, 
William  of  Champeaux  was  a  realist,  that  is,  he  at- 
tributed to  universals  a  positive  reality.  When  one 
uses  the  word  book  in  its  general,  or  universal  sense, 
it  is  evident  that  he  does  not  mean  any  book  in  par- 
ticular ;  and  the  question  comes  up,  Does  this 
word  stand  for  a  substance,  or  for  a  mere  idea,  for 
something  real,  or  something  nominal  ?  William  of 


,70  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Champeaux  contended  that  it  stood  for  something  real, 
and  Abelard  contended  that  it  was  used  in  a  merely 
nominal  sense.  This  question  of .  nominalism  and 
realism,  unimportant  as  it  may  now  seem,  was  then 
the  dominant  question  in  dialectics,  and,  as  it  were,  the 
touchstone  of  masters  and  schools.*  Abelard,  as  might 
have  been  expected,  came  off  conqueror.  His  oppo- 
nent was  driven  to  the  wall,  and  acknowledged  himself 
conquered  by  striking  out  from  his  formula  a  word 
of  the  greatest  importance  to  his  system.  Such  a  re- 
traction was  a  deathblow  to  William's  reputation  as  a 
teacher  of  philosophy.  His  pupils  deserted  him,  and 
his  spirit  forsook  him.  Abelard  was  the  victor ;  he 
destroyed  the  reputation  of  his  antagonist,  deprived 
the  proud  master  of  his  pupils,  and  triumphed  over 
an  enemy. 

It  may  be  remarked,  in  passing,  that  nominalism  and 
realism  are  now  regarded  as  both  true  and  both  false. 
Some  general  words  stand  for  things,  others  are  mere 
names.  Abelard  was  right  in  combating  the  exclu- 
sive realism  of  William  of  Champeaux,  and  he  was  al- 
so right  in  combating  the  exclusive  nominalism  of 
Roscelin,  the  canon  of  Compiegne.  In  proposing  con- 
ceptualism  as  a  substitute  for  both,  he  took  a  step  in 
advance,  and  showed  the  fertility  of  his  genius. f 

The    archdeacon,    in    leaving    the    metropolitan 

*  Ouvr.  ined.  d' Abelard,  De  Gener.  et  Spec.,  p.  513. 

\  See  M.  Cousin's  Fragments  de  Philosophic  Scholastlque. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  71 

school,  appointed  a  successor.  The  new  master,  for 
some  cause  which  is  not  clearly  ascertained,  gave  his 
chair  to  Abelard,  and  took  his  place  among  the  pupils. 
According  to  the  rules  of  the  establishment,  no  one 
could  teach  without  being  authorized  by  a  recognized 
master.  Abelard  was  therefore  only  a  delegate  of 
the  new  chief.  The  only  mode  of  removing  him  was 
through  the  master  of  the  school.  Consequently 
William  attacked  his  own  successor,  accusing  him  of 
many  things,  without  avowing  the  real  cause  of  hostili- 
ty, which,  without  doubt,  was  his  deference  to  Abe- 
lard. The  new  teacher  was  removed,  and  a  tool  of 
the  defeated  and  embittered  foe  of  Abelard  was  put 
in  his  place. 

The  decisive  battle  has  been  fought,  the  real  victory 
has  been  won,  but  the  new  hero  cannot  yet  take  peace- 
ful possession  of  the  conquered  territory.  There  is  a 
hostile  master  in  the  great  school  of  Paris,  who  is  pro- 
tected by  the  laws  pertaining  to  instruction,  and  in 
addition  to  this,  it  is  regarded  as  an  act  of  rashness 
and  almost  as  an  offence,  to  teach  in  the  city,  save  in 
the  authorized  manner.  William  of  Champeaux  has 
been  unhorsed,  but  many  things  are  yet  to  be  done 
ere  Abelard  can  reach  the  object  of  his  ambition. 
He  has  experience,  skill,  learning,  energy,  eloquence, 
boldness,  youth,  perseverance,  and  unconquerable  de- 
termination, and  we  may  predict  for  him  the  most 
brilliant  success. 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OP 


XII. 

SIEGE  OF  PARIS. 

Si  quaeritis  hujus 
Fortunam  pugnce,  non  sum  superatus  ab  illo. 

"  If  you  ask  me  what  was  the  fortune  of  the  combat,  I  was  not  van- 
quished by  him." 

Ovid ,  Metam.  1.  xiii. 

ABELARD  found  it  necessary  to  return  to  Melun,  and 
there  to  commence  his  lectures  again. 

William  of  Champeaux  was  not  benefited  in  the 
least  by  the  temporary  flight  of  his  enemy.  He  lacked 
energy  of  character,  and  skill  to  repel  an  attack. 
Above  all,  he  was  conscious  of  weakness  and  defeat. 
The  disinterestedness  of  his  piety  in  seeking  a  retreat 
being  called  in  question,  he  was  forced  to  retire  some 
distance  from  the  city  into  the  country ;  the  congre- 
gation which  he  had  formed,  and  a  few  remaining 
disciples  followed  him.* 

Abelard  left  Melun.  He  put  his  army  of  disciples 
on  the  march  for  Paris.  The  city  was  closed  against 
him,  that  is,  the  cathedral  school,  to  the  mastership 
of  which  he  was  entitled  by  his  genius  and  learning, 
was  in  the  hands  of  another.  He  encamped  outside 

*  Brucker,  Hist.  Grit  PhiL  t.  iii  p.  733. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  73 

of  the  wall,  on  the  heights  of  Saint  Grenevieve.  It  is 
said  that  he.  even  occupied  the  cloister  of  the  church 
dedicated  to  the  patron  saint  of  the  besieged  city. 
Every  thing  is  lawful  in  war.  Paris  should  have 
opened  her  great  school  to  a  philpsopher,  if  she  did 
not  wish  to  have  one  of  her  sacred  suburban  temples 
defiled  by  the  teaching  of  dialectics. 

Saint  Grenevieve  has  since  become  the  Sinai,  as  a 
Frenchman  says,  of  university  instruction.  It  was 
then  regarded  as  an  asylum  for  those  who  were 
imbued  with  the  spirit  of  independence.  From  time 
to  time,  private  schools  were  established  there,  for 
such  as  could  not  find  admission  to  the  crowded 
schools  of  the  city,  and  for  such  as  were  not  satisfied 
with  the  regular  instruction.  These  schools  were 
tolerated,  rather  than  authorized,  by  the  chancellor  of 
the  Church  of  Paris. 

Among  all  of  these  teachers,  Abelard  was  the  re- 
cognized superior.  Even  his  enemies  spoke  of  his 
"  sublime  eloquence,"  of  his  "  science  that  bore  every 
test."  His  originality  and  boldness  seduced  the 
crowd,  and  confounded  his  rivals.  A  head  and  shoul- 
ders above  the  rest,  clad  in  an  impenetrable  logical 
coat  of  mail,  he  provoked  those  around  him  to  combat, 
by  his  novel  and  daring  assertions,  and  then  put  them 
to  flight  by  the  first  stroke  of  his  terrible  dialectic 
lance.  He  was  swift  as  Achilles,  strong  as  Ajax ;  woe 
to  the  unlucky  man  who  entered  the  lists  against  him. 


74  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

While  besieging  Paris,  Abelard  became  in  reality, 
if  not  in  name,  the  master  of  the  schools.  The  suc- 
cessor of  William  was  no  better  than  a  phantom,  ter- 
rifying a  few  timid  souls  into  submission  by  the  ghostly 
voice  of  authority. 

William  heard,  from  his  retreat  in  the  country,  of 
the  danger  of  his  successor,  and  marched  to  his  aid.* 
He  collected  around  him  his  old  partisans,  vainly 
hoping  to  raise  the  siege.  This  movement  was  unfor- 
tunate, for  the  few  remaining  pupils  of  the  cathedral 
school  returned  to  William  of  Champeaux  at  Saint 
Victor.  The  master  abandoned  his  chair.  Philoso- 
phic famine  had  wasted  the  besieged.  The  two  old 
combatants  were  again  pitted  against  each  other. 
Skirmishes  took  place  daily  between  detachments 
from  the  two  hostile  armies  of  disciples.  The  pupils 
of  William,  who  had  once  been  beaten  in  single  com- 
bat, lacked  confidence  in  their  master,  and  were  gene- 
rally repulsed. 

In  Abelard  the  cause  of  the  future  triumphed  over 
the  cause  of  the  past  in  William.  The  old  master 
fought  to  the  last,  and  yielded  like  a  hero,  in  obe- 
dience to  a  stern  necessity.  "  If  you  ask  me,"  said 
Abelard,  quoting  Ovid,  "  what  was  the  fortune  of  the 
combat,  I  shall  respond  to  you  like  Ajax — He  did 
not  conquer  me."  f 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  27.  f  The  first  letter,  p.  14. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  75 


XIII. 

ABELARD  RETURNS  TO  PALLET  TO  PART  WITH  HIS 
MOTHER. 

SCARCELY  had  Abelard  gained  a  final  triumph  over 
his  opposers,  when  he  was  summoned  *  to  Brittany  by 
his  mother. 

He  who  has  no  love  for  the  one  that  bore  him,  that 
nourished  him  in  infancy,  is  not  capable  of  any  human 
affection.  Abelard  forgot  his  ambition,  forgot  his 
triumphs,  and  obeyed  the  summons  of  his  mother. 

But  what  did  she  want  of  her  son  at  such  a  moment, 
when  he  had  just  reached  the  object  of  his  ambition, 
when  he  had  just  grasped  the  prize  for  which  he  had 
been  contending  so  long  and  so  well  ? 

Her  husband  had  been  converted,  as  it  was  said ; 
had  embraced  a  religious  life.  Beranger,  who  had 
received  just  enough  literary  culture  to  make  him  dis- 
contented with  a  rude  military  life,  who  had  probably 
become  disgusted  with  the  world,  for  whom  the  "  times 
were  out  of  joint," — who  perhaps  was  earnestly  seek- 

*  Dtim  ver6  hsec  agerentur,  charissima  mihi  mater  mea 
Lucia  reputriare  me  compulit  First  letter,  p.  14. 


76  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

ing  the  salvation  of  his  soul,  had  sought  an  asylum  in 
a  convent.  The  great  tide  of  life  might  roar  madly 
on  without ;  but  as  for  him,  he  would  cherish  among 
the  religious  the  hope  of  a  more  blessed  existence 
hereafter,  and  strive  by  every  recognized  method  to 
attain  it. 

According  to  the  custom  of  the  times,  his  wife, 
Lucie,  was  about  to  imitate  his  example.  Before 
bidding  adieu  to  the  world,  she  wished  to  see  and  em- 
brace her  son — her  first-born  ! 

Many  were  those  in  the  middle  age,  who,  like  the 
father  and  mother  of  Abelard,  sought  a  resting-place 
under  the  shadow  of  the  church.  Man  loves  repose ; 
he  shrinks  from  the  rude  conflict  with  nature,  by 
which  he  compels  her  to  yield  fruits  for  the  nourish- 
ment of  his  body;  he  dreads  antagonism  with  his  fel- 
low-man ;  he  would  escape  from  the  limitations  of 
external  existence,  and  live  wholly  in  the  spirit : 
therefore  he  builds  for  himself  a  retreat,  where  he 
may  enjoy,  far  from  the  profane,  a  higher,  holier  fel- 
lowship with  kindred  spirits,  and  realize  a  life  that  is 
wholly  devoted  to  noble  ends.  Asceticism,  whatever 
form  it  may  take,  has  its  root  in  the  human  heart.  It 
equally  points  to  the  defects  of  the  actual,  and  to  the 
perennial  beauty  of  the  ideal.  When  men  are  happy 
in  society,  they  will  not  build  a  monastery,  nor  attempt 
to  found  a  new  community. 

In  the  Middle  Age,  monastic  institutions  flourished, 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  77 

for  society  was  profoundly  unhappy.  Especially  at 
the  beginning  of  the  eleventh  century,  existence 
seemed  to  be  for  each  one,  at  best,  a  calamity.  Not- 
withstanding the  promise  of  her  priests,  that  Chris- 
tianity should  do  away  with  all  suffering  upon  earth, 
still  life  was  full  of  sorrow,  and  the  strong  man  in  the 
midst  of  his  loved  ones  watered  the  hearth-stone  of 
his  habitation  with  tears.  The  belief  had  been 
handed  down  from  generation  to  generation,  that  the 
world  would  come  to  an  end  in  the  thousandth  year 
from  the  nativity.  As  the  appointed  time  drew  nigh, 
each  one  seemed  to  listen  for  the  blast  of  the  last 
trump,  and  to  watch  for  the  bursting  forth  of  flames 
from  the  bosom  of  the  earth.  Famine  and  pestilence 
were  let  loose,  like  angels  of  retribution,  to  punish  a 
sin-darkened  world.  Highways  were  strown  with  the 
dead,  and  places  of  pilgrimage  were  packed  with  the 
victims  of  a  desolating  disease.  Famine  seized  many 
that  were  spared  by  the  pestilence.  The  stronger 
killed  and  eat  the  weaker.  Forty-eight  were  mas- 
sacred and  devoured  by  a  single  wretch  in  the  forest 
of  Magon.  In  one  place,  human  flesh  was  publicly 
exposed  for  sale  in  the  market-place.  The  beasts  of 
the  forests  visited  the  habitations  of  men,  for  their 
daily  food.* 

In  the  general  despair  of  the  times,  every  body 
sought  refuge  in  the  church.    The  abbots  had  to  exer- 

*  Histoire  de  France,  L  iv.,  c.  1. 


V8  LIVES    AND    JJ-MTKKS    OF 

else  their  authority  to  keep  all  kings  and  nobles  from 
turning  monks.  The  Emperor  Henry  II.,  entering  an 
abbey,  exclaimed  with  the  Psalmist:  "  This  is  my 
rest  for  ever ;  here  will  I  dwell,  for  I  have  desired 
it."  He  was  accepted  on  a  vow  of  obedience,  and 
sent  back  to  his  empire. 

The  year  one  thousand,  however,  passed  by,  and  a 
period  of  intense  suffering  was  followed  by  a  period 
of  deep  superstition.  Monastic  institutions  greatly 
flourished  in  the  eleventh  century.  The  church,  as 
wo  have  alreedy  seen,  increased  in  splendor,  and  was 
corrupted  by  the  spirit  of  the  feudal  world  ;  but  by  the 
monks,  with  Hildebrand  at  their  head,  she  was  reformed. 

The  course  of  Beranger  and  Lucie  is,  therefore,  a 
common  one.  Thev  are  actinir  like  multitudes  of 
others  in  their  times.  Al>elard  has  done  well  in  going 
to  receive  the  adieus  of  his  mother.  She  claims  a 
mother's  right;  and  with  the  sage  instinct  of  a  true- 
hearted  woman,  gives  him  counsel  that  is  better  than 
any  precepts  of  philosophy. — When  was  a  mother 
ever  insincere  to  a  son  ? — He  will  not  follow  her 
advice,  however,  and  calamities  shall  come  as  the 
avengers  of  his  misdeeds.  He  shall  follow  the  course 
of  his  father  and  mother  to  escape  the  multiplying  ills 
of  an  unfortunate  life,  but  shall  find  that  no  r< 
can  give  quiet  to  a  disturbed  mind,  and  rest  to  a  bur- 
thened  heart.  The  soul  of  man  must  find  peace  in 
some  other  asylum  than  that  of  a  convent. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  79 


XIV. 

ANSELM  OF  LAON. 

WHEN  Abelard  returned  to  Paris  no  one  hindered 
him  from  taking  possession  of  the  school  that  was  his 
by  right  of  conquest.  William  of  Champeaux,  aban- 
doning his  retreat,  as  well  as  the  school  of  Saint  Vic- 
tor, had  been  made  bishop  of  Chalons-Sur-Marne. 
The  two  hostile  philosophers  will  not  meet  again,  but 
their  enmity  has  not  ceased.  William  will  fulfil  Avith 
sufficient  dignity  the  office  of  bishop,  but  he  lacks 
magnanimity,  even  generosity,  and  will  prejudice, 
some  time  during  the  few  more  years  that  remain  to 
him  on  earth,  the  good  St.  Bernard  against  Abelard. 
His  hatred  shall  be  felt  by  his  conquering  pupil,  even 
when  the  turf  lies  cold  above  him. 

Abelard  is  now  the  dictator  of  intellectual  Paris. 
He  has  no  rival  in  the  schools,  and  his  authority  is  su- 
preme. He  is  in  philosophy  all  that  Napoleon  will 
be  in  arms,  and  rules  by  the  force  of  genius  alone. 

He  is  not  contented,  for  his  warlike  nature  is  not 
satisfied  with  peace.  The  conqueror  droops  when 
there  are  no  more  enemies  to  be  subdued.  When  the 


80  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

business  man  retires,  his  days  are  listless  and  weary- 
ing, and  he  wonders  that  happiness  should  have  forsa- 
ken him  at  the  moment  when  he  renounced  care  and 
toil.  Satisfaction  is  found  only  in  doing.  Alexander 
wept  when  he  had  done  conquering  the  world,  for  the 
same  reason  that  the  merchant  feels  sad  when  he  closes 
for  the  last  time  the  old  familiar  counting-room. 
When  one  leaves  scenes  of  activity  for  the  purpose  of 
enjoying  repose,  he  soon  finds  himself  a  victim  of 
ennui,  and  strong  must  be  his  virtue,  or  he  will  yield 
to  the  excitement  of  sinful  pleasures. 

Abelard,  moved  perhaps  by  a  desire  to  obtain  a 
position  in  the  church,  like  that  of  William  of  Cham- 
peaux,  for  the  purpose,  it  might  be,  of  adding  a  know- 
ledge of  theology  to  his  other  acquirements,  or  im- 
pelled, possibly,  by  his  restless  nature,  to  seek  new  ad- 
ventures, left  Paris  for  the  school  of  Anselm  at  Laon. 

Anselm  of  Laon,  who  must  not  be  confounded  with 
Anselm,  the  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  was  the  most- 
distinguished  teacher  of  theology  in  his  times.  He 
began  his  teaching  in  Paris,  and  William  of  Charn- 
peaux  had  been  his  pupil.  His  reputation  was  such, 
that  pupils  were  attracted  to  Laon  from  all  parts  of 
Europe.  His  method  was  simple,  but  his  elocution 
was  remarkably  fine.  His  lectures  contained  little 
else  than  a  commentary  on  the  text  of  Scripture,  but 
a  fine  delivery  charmed  his  auditors. 

Abelard  was  not  at  all  pleased  with  his  new  mas- 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  8\ 

ter.  "  From  a  distance,"  said  the  restless  pupil,  "  he 
was  a  beautiful  tree  loaded  with  foliage ;  near  by,  he 
was  a  tree  without  fruit,  or  resembled  the  arid  tree 
that  was  cursed  by  Christ.  When  he  kindled  his  fire 
he  produced  smoke,  but  no  light."*  We  may  easily 
believe  that  he  did  not  "  long  lie  at  ease  under  the 
shade  of  that  tree."  At  first  he  manifested  his  low 
estimate  of  Anselm  by  neglecting  his  lectures.  Those 
pupils  who  thought  most  of  their  teacher,  were  of 
course  offended  by  such  an  exhibition  of  indifference. 
One  of  his  fellow  students  asked  him  one  day  what 
he  thought  of  the  instruction  in  sacred  things,  hinting 
to  him,  at  the  same  time,  that  his  studies  thus  far  had 
been  confined  to  natural  sciences.  The  response  of 
Abelard  was  quite  characteristic,  and  somewhat  pro- 
voking. He  regarded  as  most  salutary  the  science 
that  gives  one  a  knowledge  of  his  own  soul,  but 
thought  that  men  of  science  needed  nothing  but  a 
single  commentary,  in  order  to  understand  the  sacred 
books.  He  added  that  such  were  in  no  need  of  a 
master.  This  response  was  not  very  flattering  to  the 
self-love  of  those  who  were  zealous  pupils,  and  the 
presumptuous  young  Breton,  who  openly  neglected 
the  instruction  of  the  great  Anselm,  was  made  the 

*  Epistola  Abselardi  (Historia  Calamitatum),  p.  16.     With 
reference  to  Anselm  Abelard  quotes  from  Lucan : 

"...        Stat  magni  nominis  umbra, 
Qualis  frogifero  quercus  sublimis  in  agro." 

4* 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

object  of  their  ridicule.  He  coolly  answered  their 
jeering,  by  saying  that  he  was  ready  for  them  if  they 
wished  to  test  the  matter.  The  Prophecy  of  Ezekiel 
was  accordingly  chosen  as  the  most  obscure  and  most 
difficult  to  explain.  An  accompanying  commentary 
was  given  to  Abelard,  and  he  invited  them  to  attend 
his  lecture  the  next  day.  Some  that  professed  friend- 
ship, advised  him  not  to  undertake  an  enterprise  of 
such  magnitude,  and  to  remember  his  want  of  experi- 
ence in  such  high  matters.  With  his  usual  self-reli- 
ance, he  replied  to  them  that  he  was  in  the  habit  of 
obeying  his  own  spirit  instead  of  following  custom. 

At  the  first  lecture  he  had  but  few  auditors.  It 
seemed  to  most  of  the  students,  many  of  whom  be- 
longed to  the  regular  clergy,  that  a  lecture  upon  the 
most  difficult  portion  of  the  Scriptures  by  a  new-comer, 
by  one  who  had  received  no  instruction  in  sacred  sci- 
ence, who  had  never  been  initiated  into  the  mysteries 
of  theology,  was  a  thing  too  ridiculous  to  be  counte- 
nanced, too  rash  to  be  encouraged,  too  irreverent  to  be 
tolerated.  The  few,  however,  that  did  attend,  were 
greatly  charmed.  The  notes  which  they  took 
were  transcribed  by  the  others,  and  their  eulogies 
made  all  eager  to  attend  the  next  lecture. 

A  new  chair  was  thus  erected  by  the  side  of  that 
of  Anselm.  A  rash  young  man  not  only  seemed  to 
despise  the  most  distinguished  of  European  teachers 
of  theology,  but  threatened  to  eclipse  him  among  his 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  83 

own  pupils.  The  old  man  was  astonished  and  enraged. 
A  fate  like  that  of  William  of  Champeaux  seemed 
to  await  him.  Two*  of  his  most  distinguished  pupils, 
however,  came  to  his  assistance,  and  recommended 
the  old  man  to  exercise  his  authority,  and  put  a  stop 
to  the  lectures  of  Abelard.  Anselm  announced  to 
his  pupils,  by  way  of  excuse  for  his  course,  that  he 
feared  lest  through  the  inexperience  of  Abelard,  some 
error  concerning  doctrine  might  escape  him ;  but  they 
were  not  satisfied  with  such  a  pretext,  and  attributed 
to  jealousy  the  real  motives  of  the  master  for  silencing 
so  brilliant  a  lecturer,  f 

Abelard  returned  to  Paris,  having  despoiled  the 
old  theologian  of  much  of  his  honor.  It  is  an  estab- 
lished law,  that  every  man  must  give  place  to  a  supe- 
rior. The  wisest  and  the  best  is  the  lawful  governor 
of  the  world. 

*  Alberic  of  Rheims,  and  Lotulfus  of  Navarre,  with  whom 
Abelard  subsequently  came  in  contact. 

f  See  Abelard's  account  in  the  Historia  Calamitatum 


84  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XV. 

FULBERT  AND  HIS  NIECE. 

WHEN  the  curious  traveller  goes  to  Paris,  he  not  only 
visits  the  splendid  constructions  of  modern  times,  but 
also  looks  after  those  things  that  are  monumental  of 
earlier  ages. 

When  in  going  about  that  part  of  the  city  which  is 
most  ancient,  the  part  situated  on  the  island  in  the 
Seine,  we  descend  by  a  flight  of  stairs  from  the  quai 
Napoleon  into  the  rue  des  Chantres,  above  the  door 
of  the  first  house  on  the  left,  we  read  this  inscrip- 
tion : 

HELO!SE,  ABELARD  HABITERENT  CES  LIEUX,  DES  SINCERES  AMANS 
MODELES  PRECIEUX.     L/AN  1118. 

"Here  dwelt  Heloise  and  Abelard,  precious  models  of 
sincere  lovers.  The  year  1118." 

If  we  go  in  we  shall  find  fitted  into  the  wall  a 
double  medallion,  bearing  the  profile  of  a  man  and 
the  profile  of  a  woman.  The  stupid  people  about  the 
place  will  try  to  make  us  believe  that  these  profiles  are 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  85 

those  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  but  we  had  better  be  a 
little  incredulous.  The  medallion  is  probably  the  work 
of  a  blundering  restorer,  who,  some  time  in  the  fifteenth 
or  sixteenth  century,  put  it  in  the  place  of  one  more 
authentic  and  ancient.* 

We  are  not  certain  that  Abelard  and  Heloise  ever 
dwelt  in  this  house,  which  does  not  seem  to  be  seven 
or  eight  hundred  years  old;  but  unquestionably  the 
dwelling  of  Fulbert,  the  canon  of  Notre-Dame,  was 
not  far  from  this  place. 

The  locality  is  nearly  north  from  the  cathedral. 
Between  the  house  and  the  river  there  is  now  a  wharf, 
but  in  the  year  1116  or  1117,  there  must  have  been 
a  sloping  bank  from  the  foot  of  the  street  to  the  run- 
ning waters  below.  The  street  is  narrow  and  winding. 
For  centuries  past  it  has  been  frequented  by  those 
connected  with  the  metropolitan  church.  The  differ- 
ent costumes  of  the  various  orders  of  these  savers  of 
souls  according  to  the  grace  of  Rome,  give  to  the 
street  a  peculiar  interest.  On  the  bank  of  the  river 
opposite,  we  may  now  see  the  splendid  Hotel  de  Ville. 
In  the  early  years  of  the  twelfth  century,  the  place 
where  that  splendid  palace  now  stands,  was  a  wide 
unoccupied  shore. 

In  the  year  1117,  Heloise  lived  here  with  her  un- 
cle. She  had  left  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  one 

*  Remusat:    Vie  de  Abelard^  p.  51. 


86  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

knows  not  when.  The  nuns  there,  most  likely  gave 
her  all  the  instruction  that  they  had  to  impart,  which 
in  the  Middle  Age  was  more  than  we  boasting  mod- 
erns are  apt  to  think.  The  education  of  females  in 
the  convents  had  its  excellencies  as  well  as  its  defects. 
It  was  too  subtile  and  poetic,  not  sufficiently  prosy 
and  practical.  Christian  girls  were  instructed  in  the 
literature  and  philosophy  of  antiquity,  and  other  things 
were  neglected.  The  imagination  was  developed  more 
than  the  understanding,  therefore  the  heart  was  en- 
dangered. Marriage  was  regarded  by  the  church  as 
at  least  a  venial  sin,  and  the  budding  maiden  was  not 
taught  to  look  forward  to  a  sanctified  relationship  in 
which  she  might  find  a  home  for  her  affections.  Bun- 
glers attempted  to  mend  the  work  of  God ;  confusion 
was  introduced,  and  many  a  one  innocent  as  Iphige- 
nia  or  the  daughter  of  Jephtha,  went  as  a  victim  to  an 
altar  erected  by  the  sightless,  as  a  bride  to  the  sha- 
dowy arms  of  death. 

Heloise  was  then  about  seventeen  years  of  age. 
Although  so  young,  her  name  was  known,  not  only  in 
Paris,  but  throughout  the  kingdom.  Her  talents  and 
acquirements  were  extraordinary  •  she  was  by  nature 
a  queen,  and  took  the  intellectual  throne,  like  one  who 
has  a  perfect  right  to  rule.  Her  aristocracy  was 
somewhat  deeper  than  that  of  the  cut  and  color  of  the 
dress ;  it  was  that  elder  aristocracy  of  vital  force  and 
blood,  of  brain  and  heart.  A  wooden  head  is  good 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  87 

enough  in  its  place,  but  is  rather  ridiculous  when 
thrust  inside  of  a  crown. 

Fulbert  was  entirely  of  the  earth,  earthy.  To  eat 
dinners,  acquire  money,  and  get  notoriety  of  the  better 
kind,  was,  for  him,  to  live.  That  such  a  piece  of  flesh 
as  he,  should  have  been  placed  in  the  ancient  city  of 
Paris,  as  a  spiritual  guide  to  a  numerous  flock,  is  one 
of  the  strange  things  which  time  has  to  record  against 
humanity. 

It  is  sad  to  see  such  a  child  of  genius  as  Heloise 
given  up  to  the  guidance  of  such  a  stolid  man.  One 
sometimes  has  to  pay  a  dear  penalty  for  being  related 
to  certain  persons.  Fulbert  has  no  love  for  his  niece 
of  the  beautiful  and  spiritual  kind.  She  is  admired 
by  every  body,  and  he  likes  her  for  the  fame  that  she 
brings  his  house.  He  prides  himself  on  being  the 
uncle  of  such  a  queen  of  learning.  A  man  who  has 
made  money,  sometimes  purchases  for  an  immense 
sum  a  great  work  of  art,  and  as  its  possessor,  appro- 
priates to  himself  a  portion  of  the  praises  that  are 
bestowed  upon  a  production  of  genius ;  he  cannot  ap- 
preciate the  noble  picture  or  the  statue  which  he 
owns,  he  does  not  love  it  for  its  beauty  and  intrinsic 
worth,  but  prizes  it  for  some  accidental  and  entirely 
outward  value :  such  is  the  regard  of  Fulbert  for  He- 
loise. He  cannot  appreciate  her  endowments ;  in  his 
dull  eye  a  gifted  soul  has  no  deep,  divine  significance, 
he  boasts  of  having  a  wonderful  niece,  as  King  Adrne- 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tus  might  have  boasted  of  having  an  excellent  shep- 
herd. 

There  are  melancholy  hours  in  which  Heloise  feels 
the  oppression  of  solitude.  The  soul  continually  seeks 
for  fellowship ;  it  is  happy  when  it  finds  an  interpre- 
tation of  its  own  moods  in  the  expressed  experience 
of  another ;  alone,  it  is  restless  and  sad.  The  house 
of  Fulbert  is  to  Heloise  a  prison,  for  among  its  in- 
mates there  is  not  one,  with  whom  she  can  hold  any 
communion  of  higher  sentiment  and  thought.  She  is 
not  indifferent  to  fame,  but  the  approbation  of  the  great, 
thoughtless,  noisy  world  without,  cannot  satisfy  the  si- 
lent aspirations  of  her  spirit.  She  is  no  longer  a  child ; 
her  heart  has  become  the  home  of  longings  that  are 
strange  and  new.  A  mystic  tear  now  and  then  forces  it- 
self to  her  eye,  and  thoughts  visit  the  soul,  thai 
like  prophetic  interpretations  of  life's  future  years. 

Dear  Heloise !  one  of  the  gods  might  love  thee ; 
Apollo  himself  might  be  satisfied  with  thy  most  pre- 
cious of  hearts ;  thou  hast  no  guides,  and  art  without 
experience  ;  the  serpent  lurks  near  thee ;  I  fear  thou 
wilt  accept  the  apple,  which  will  turn  to  bitter  ashes 
upon  thy  sweet  lips  ! 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  89 


XVI. 

"THE  OBSERVED  OF  ALL  OBSERVERS." 

WHEN  Abelard  returned  to  Paris,  after  his  quarrel 
with  Anselm  at  Laon,  he  found  an  unoccupied  field ; 
the  schools  were  all  opened  to  him.  His  old  enemies 
were  silent,  and  he  took  his  place  at  the  head  of  pub- 
lic instruction. 

It  is  said,  and  it  is  probably  true,  that  Abelard 
was  made  canon  of  Paris,  as  well  as  rector  of  the 
schools.  There  is  no  evidence,  however,  that  he  be- 
came a  priest  until  afterwards ;  but  unquestionably  he 
was  looking  for  advancement  in  the  church. 

In  Paris,  Abelard  went  on  with  his  exegesis  of 
Ezekiel,  which  had  been  begun  and  suspended  at 
Laon.  He  was  as  successful  in  theology  as  in  philo- 
sophy. In  fact  he  was  the  first  one  who  applied,  to 
any  extent,  philosophy  to  the  teaching  of  theology, 
and  thus  founded  scholasticism,  properly  so  called. 

Abelard  soon  became  the  most  noted  man  of  all 
France,  and  his  fame  spread  to  distant  nations.  From 
Germany,  from  England,  from  Italy — from  every  civil 
ized  country,  pupils  flocked  to  Paris,  attracted  by  the 


90  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

report  of  his  learning  and  eloquence.  Picts,  Gascons, 
Iberians,  Normans,  Flemings,  Teutons,  Swedes,  as 
well  as  the  children  of  Rome,  went  to  be  instructed 
by  Abelard.  In  a  year  or  two  after  his  return  to 
Paris,  the  number  of  his  pupils  amounted  to  more 
than  five  thousand.  Greatly  gifted  must  have  been 
the  man  who,  in  the  rude  Middle  Age,  could  thus 
charm  all  Europe  by  the  eloquent  exposition  of  the 
abstract  doctrines  of  philosophy. 

The  noblest  young  men  of  the  whole  civilized 
world  were  among  the  five  thousand  pupils  that  daily 
listened  to  the  voice  of  Abelard.  What  is  the  influ- 
ence of  a  king  compared  with  that  of  such  a  teacher  ? 
Quis  custodiet  custodes  ?  somewhere  asks  Juvenal ; 
"  Who  shall  keep  the  keepers  ?  "  He  who  instructs 
the  rulers  of  society  is  a  keeper  of  the  keepers. 
Among  those  pupils  there  was  one  destined  to  become 
a  pope  (Celestin  II.) ;  there  were  nineteen  destined  to 
become  cardinals ;  more  than  a  hundred  destined  to 
become  bishops  or  archbishops  of  France,  England, 
and  Germany.  There  were  also  many  who  afterwards 
became  distinguished  in  the  political  world,  who  bore 
a  conspicuous  part  in  the  affairs  of  the  times,  and  left 
a  name  in  history.* 

"  In  the  midst  of  this  attentive  and  obedient  mul- 

*  The  enemies,  as  well  as  the  friends  of  Abelard,  testify 
to  the  number  of  his  pupils.  Fabulous  as  it  seems,  all  autho- 
rities agree  that  there  is  no  exaggeration. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  91 

titude,"  says  Charles  de  Remusat,*  "  was  often  seen 
passing  a  man  with  a  large  forehead,  with  a  vivid  and 
fiery  look,  with  a  noble  bearing,  whose  beauty  still 
preserved  the  brilliancy  of  youth,  while  taking  the 
more  marked  traits  and  the  deeper  hues  of  full  viri- 
lity. His  grave  and  elegant  dress ;  the  severe  luxury 
of  his  person;  the  simple  elegance  of  his  manners, 
which  were  by  turns  affable  and  haughty ;  an  attitude 
imposing,  gracious,  and  not  without  that  indolent 
negligence  which  follows  confidence  in  success,  and 
the  habitual  exercise  of  power ;  the  respect  of  those 
who  followed  in  his  train,  who  were  arrogant  to  all 
except  him ;  the  eager  curiosity  of  the  multitude  : — 
all,  when  he  went  to  his  lectures  or  returned  to  his 
dwelling,  followed  by  his  disciples,  still  charmed  by 
his  speech,  —  all  announced  a  master  the  most 
powerful  in  the  schools,  the  most  renowned  in  the 
world,  the  most  loved  in  the  cite.  The  crowd  in 
the  streets  stopped  to  gaze  at  him  as  he  passed  by ; 
in  order  to  see  him,  the  people  rushed  to  the  doors  of 
their  houses,  and  females  gazed  at  him  from  their 
windows.  Paris  had  adopted  him  as  her  child,  as  her 
ornament  and  her  light.  Paris  was  proud  of  Abelard, 
and  celebrated  the  name  of  which,  after  seven  centu- 
ries, the  city  of  all  glories  and  oblivions  has  preserved 
the  popular  memory." 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  43. 


92  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Such  is  the  position  of  Abelard  about  the  year 
1117;  but  the  conqueror  shall  soon  be  conquered ; 
he  has  been  sufficiently  mighty  to  take  a  city ;  but 
he  will  not  be  equal  to  the  ruling  of  his  own  spirit. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  93 


XVII. 

A  PAIR  OF  RENOWNED  LOVERS. 

"  Thou  know'st  how  guiltless  first  I  met  thy  flame, 
"When  love  approached  me  under  friendship's  name ; 
My  fancy  formed  thee  of  angelic  kind, 
Some  emanation  of  th'  all-beauteous  mind. 
Those  smiling  eyes,  attemp'ring  ev'ry  ray ! 
Shone  sweetly  lambent  with  celestial  day. 
Guiltless  I  gazed ;  heav'n  listen'd  while  you  sung ; 
And  truths  divine  came  mended  from  that  tongue. 
From  lips  like  those  what  precept  failed  to  move  ? 
Too  soon  they  taught  me  'twas  no  sin  to  love : 
Back  through  the  paths  of  pleasing  sense  I  ran. 
Nor  wished  an  Angel  whom  I  loved  a  Man. 
Dim  and  remote  the  joys  of  saints  I  see ; 
Nor  envy  them  that  heav'n  I  lose  for  thee." 

POPE'S  "Eloisa  to  Abdard." 

"  THE  more  spirit  one  has,"  says  Pascal,  "  the  greater 
his  passions  are,  because  the  passions  being  only  sen- 
timents and  thoughts  which  purely  pertain  to  the 
spirit,  although  they  are  occasioned  by  the  body,  it  is 
clear  that  they  are  still  only  the  spirit  itself,  and  that 
thus  they  fulfil  its  entire  capacity."* 

*  Des  Pensees  de  Pascal,  par  M.  Victor  Cousin,  second 
edition,  p.  397. 


94  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

The  youth  and  early  manhood  of  Abelard  were 
pure.  Philosophy  was  his  mistress,  and  he  served 
her  with  all  the  ardor  of  his  intense  nature.  His 
fiery  passions  spent  their  energy  in  study  and  in  dia- 
lectic war  with  the  most  renowned  masters  of  his 
times.  At  length  the  whole  circle  of  science  was  com- 
pleted, and  every  foe  that  appeared  on  the  battle-field 
of  argumentation  was  conquered.  His  spirit  would 
not  be  at  rest ;  it  is  not  in  the  nature  of  man  to  be 
satisfied  without  the  love  of  woman. 

What  can  Abelard  do  ?  He  is  already  a  canon, 
and  is  looking  for  advancement  in  the  church.  Rome 
has  cursed  woman,  and  will  not  allow  any  of  her 
priests  to  marry.  Concubines  they  may  have,  but 
wives  are  unlawful.  He  that  ministers  in  sacred 
things  may  say  his  prayers  in  the  arms  of  a  courtesan, 
but  he  must  not  taste  the  sweets  of  wedded  love. 
The  wicked  layman  may  enjoy  the  pleasures  of  do- 
mestic life,  but  the  immaculate  priest  is  permitted  to 
look  for  sympathy  and  solace  only  among  the  daughters 
of  sin. 

Abelard,  then,  can  abandon  his  idea  of  becoming 
a  priest,  and  marry  ;  or  he  can  adhere  to  his  ambition 
of  preferment  in  the  church,  and  seek  a  mistress. 
The  latter  course  is  chosen,  and  becomes  the  occasion 
of  many  misfortunes. 

For  Abelard  we  do  not  claim  saintship,  yet  Rome 
was  in  part  to  blame  for  his  fall.  The  church  was  at 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  95 

war  with  nature  and  revelation  in  demanding  celibacy 
for  her  priesthood.  Abelard,  if  we  judge  him  by  the 
highest  standard,  should  have  abandoned  the  church, 
or  in  aspiring  to  the  priesthood  should  have  been  willing 
to  fulfil  the  vows  which  it  imposes.  The  lax  morality 
of  the  times  and  the  habits  of  the  clergy  may  soften 
our  judgment,  yet  they  are  not  sufficient  excuses  for 
his  crime. 

In  all  Paris,  the  niece  of  Fulbert,  the  young,  the 
accomplished,  the  beautiful  Heloise,  was  regarded  as 
the  most  worthy  object  of  his  attention.  Such  were 
his  renown,  his  manly  beauty,  his  grace  of  manner 
and  eloquence  of  conversation,  that,  in  those  lax 
times,  any  woman  in  France  would  have  considered 
herself  honored  by  his  proposals.  He  chose  the  one 
best  fitted  by  her  studies  and  by  the  strength  of  her 
mind  to  become  his  companion,  who  might  have  been 
the  blessed  wife  of  his  bosom  until  the  hour  of  his 
death,  had  not  Mother  Church  interposed  a  barrier 
to  such  a  sacred  union,  had  not  ambition  tempted 
him  beyond  his  strength. 

It  is  not  known  when  Abelard  and  Heloise  first 
met.  Two  such  persons  could  not  long  remain,  even 
in  the  largest  city,  unknown  to  each  other.  They 
seemed  to  be  placed  there  for  each  other — to  bless 
each  other  ;  but  their  meeting  was  the  occasion  of 
sorrow  instead  of  lasting  joy. 

The  cunning  brain  of  the  philosopher  soon  con- 


90  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

trived  a  plan  to  get  access  to  tin-  object  of  his  passion. 
Mutual  friends  propose  to  Fulbert  that  he  shall  take 
the  great  master  into  kis  house.  The  residence  of 
Fulbert  is  so  convenient  to  the  school;  Abelard finds 
the  cares  of  keeping  a  house  so  troublesome ;  he  is 
absorbed  in  deep  study,  and  the  servants  waste  his 
income.  Fulbert  loves  money,  and  is  tempted  with 
the  price  offered.  He  loves  his  niece,  too,  and  thinks 
it  is  a  good  opportunity  to  complete  her  education 
under  the  private  instruction  of  the  most  renowned 
teacher.  Foolish  old  Fulbert !  if  a  wife  had  been 
allowed  thee,  her  eye  would  have  seen  what  entirely 
escaped  thy  obtuse  vision,  and  Heloise  would  not 
have  been  exposed  to  a  danger  that  she  was  unable  to 
withstand. 

We  cannot  help  cursing  Abelard,  notwithstanding 
all  the  extenuating  circumstances  of  his  times,  for  his 
sin  was  a  deliberate  act,  as  appears  from  his  own  con- 
fession. 

"  There  existed  at  Paris,"  he  says,*  "  a  young 
lady,  named  Heloise,  niece  of  a  certain  canon,  who 
was  called  Fulbert,  who  in  his  love  for  her,  had  neg- 
lected nothing  in  order  to  give  her  the  most  complete 
and  brilliant  education.  She  was  far  from  being  the 
lowest  in  beauty,  and  was  certainly  the  highest  in 
literary  attainments.  Such  knowledge  of  literature 

*  Abelard  Op.,  ep.  i.,  p.  10. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  97 

the  more  highly  commended  a  young  girl  because  it 
is  so  rare  in  women,  and  had  made  her  the  most  noted 
in  the  whole  kingdom. 

"  Therefore  observing  that  she  was  endowed  with 
all  those  charms  that  are  wont  to  attract  lovers,  I  re- 
garded her  as  a  more  proper  person  to  engage  in  an 
enterprise  of  love  with  me,  and  believed  that  I  could 
easily  accomplish  my  purpose.  My  name  was  then 
so  great,  the  graces  of  youth  and  the  perfection  of 
form  gave  me  a  superiority  so  unquestionable,  that 
from  whatever  female  I  might  have  honored  with  my 
love  I  should  have  feared  no  repulse. 

"  I  persuaded  myself  the  more  easily  that  the 
young  lady  would  consent  to  my  desires,  because  I 
knew  the  extent  of  her  knowledge  and  her  zeal  for 
learning,  and  because  I  knew  that  more  daring  things 
would  be  written  than  spoken,  and  that  thus  pleasant 
intercourse  could  always  be  maintained. 

Jj'  Wholly  inflamed  with  love  for  this  young  girl,  I 
sought  an  occasion  to  approach  her,  to  familiarize  her 
with  myself  in  daily  conversation,  and  thus  lead  her 
the  more  easily  to  yield  her  consent.  In  order  to 
succeed  in  this,  I  employed  the  intervention  of  some 
friends  with  the  uncle  of  the  girl,  that  they  might 
induce  him  to  receive  me  into  %his  house,  which 
was  very  near  to  my  school,  at  whatever  price.  I 
pretended  that  my  studies  were  very  much  impeded 
by  domestic  cares,  and  that  keeping  open  a  house 


98  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

burthened  me  with  too  heavy  an  expense.  He  was 
very  avaricious,  and  eager  to  facilitate  the  progress 
of  his  niece  in  literature.  By  flattering  these  two 
passions  I  soon  gained  his  consent,  and  thus  obtained 
what  I  desired ;  for  he  was  intent  upon  gain,  and 
believed  his  niece  would  profit  by  my  presence  for  her 
instruction.  In  regard  to  this  he  pressed  me  with 
the  most  earnest  solicitations,  acceding  to  my  wishes 
more  readily  than  I  had  dared  to  hope,  and  thus 
serving  himself  my  love ;  for  he  committed  Heloise 
wholly  to  my  direction,  praying  me  to  devote  to  her 
instruction  all  the  time,  either  day  or  night,  unoccu- 
pied in  my  school ;  and,  if  I  found  her  negligent,  to 
chastise  her  severely.  T 

"  In  regard  to  tnis,  if  I  wondered  at  the  sim- 
plicity of  the  canon,  on  the  other  hand,  in  thinking  of 
myself,  I  was  not  less  astonished  than  if  he  had  been 
confiding  a  tender  lamb  to  a  famished  wolf.  In  giv- 
ing up  Heloise  to  me,  not  only  to  teach,  but  even  to 
chastise  severely,  he  was  doing  nothing  else  than 
granting  full  license  to  my  desires,  and,  even  if  we 
were  not  thus  disposed,  to  offer  occasion  of  triumph  ; 
for  should  I  not  be  able  to  accomplish  my  purpose 
with  blandishments,  I  might  bend  her  to  my  will  with 
threats  and  blows.  But  two  considerations  closed 
the  mind  of  Fulbert  against  any  suspicion,  love  of 
his  niece,  and  my  long-standing  reputation  for  conti- 
nence. To  say  all  in  a  word  ;  at  first  we  were  united 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  90 

in  one  house,  then  in  mind.  |  Under  the  pretext  of 
study,  we  were  wholly  free  for  love,  and  the  retire- 
ment which  love  sought,  zeal  for  reading  offered. 
The  books  opened,  there  were  more  words  of  love 
than  of  reading :  more  kisses  than  precepts ;  love 
was  reflected  in  each  other's  eyes  oftener  than  the 
purpose  of  reading  directed  them  to  the  written  page. 
In  order  to  keep  off  suspicion,  blows  were  given,  but 
in  love  and  not  in  rage,  in  tenderness  and  not  in 
anger, — blows  that  transcended  the  sweetness  of  all 
balmsj  /  What  then?  We  passed  through  all  the 
phases  and  degrees  of  love  ;  all  its  inventions  were 
put  under  requisition  ;  no  refinement  was  left  untried. 
We  were  the  more  ardent  in  the  enjoyment  of  these 
pleasures,  because  they  were  new  to  us,  and  we  ex- 
perienced no  satiety.  It  was  very  tedious  for  me  to 
go  to  my  lessons,  and  it  was  equally  laborious,  for  the 
hours  of  the  night  were  given  to  love,  and  those  of 
the  day  to  study.  I  gave  my  lectures  with  negli- 
gence and  tedium,  for  my  mind  produced  nothing ;  I 
spoke  only  from  habit  and  memory ;  I  was  only  a 
reciter  of  ancient  inventions ;  and,  if  I  chanced  to 
compose  some  verses,  they  were  songs  of  love  and  not 
the  secrets  of  philosophy.  Most  of  these  verses,  as 
you  know,  have  become  popular,  and  are  sung  in  many 
regions,  especially  by  those  whose  life  has  been  charmed 
by  a  similar  experience." 

We  weep  for  thee,  fallen  Heloise  !     Thy  spirit 


100 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


has  found  the  sympathy  for  which  it  longed,  but 
delirium  flows  swiftly  in  thy  blood,  and  paints  upon 
thy  youthful  cheek  the  crimson  of  sin.  The  tongue 
whose  eloquence  charms  thee  is  half  false ;  in  the  gaze 
that  thy  lover  bends  on  thee  lurks  insincerity ;  there 
is  a  wave  of  scorn  in  the  smile  that  gives  thee  such 
deep  joy ;  there  is  a  tone  of  hollowness  in  the  heart 
that  beats  against  thy  reclining  head  ;  thou  art  cursed 
with  passion  and  not  blessed  with  love.  These  days 
of  intoxicating  pleasure  are  swiftly  passing ;  the  Eden 
in  the  midst  of  which  thou  art  standing  shall  soon  be 
metamorphosed  ;  its  bright  colors  shall  fade,  its  music 
shall  cease,  the  warmth  of  its  atmosphere  shall  turn 
to  chilliness,  its  rich  fruits  shall  vanish,  and  around 
thee  on  every  side  shall  be  desolation  as  far  as  the 
eye  can  reach.  We  pity  thee,  but  cannot  greatly 
blame  ;  the  earth  is  cursed  beneath  thee,  but  heaven, 
with  its  mercy,  is  above  thee  still ! 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  10 1 


XVIII. 

CONFUSION  ON  EVERY  SIDE. 

G-REAT  was  the  desolation  among  the  pupils  of  Abe- 
lard  when  they  perceived  the  pre- occupation  of  their 
master.  A  vast  army  of  them,  five  thousand  in  num- 
ber, had  come  together  from  every  quarter  of  the 
civilized  world,  attracted  by  Abelard's  reputation  for 
eloquence  and  wisdom;  from  day  to  day  they  had 
been  charmed  by  his  ingenious  and  brilliant  lectures ; 
and  when  in  their  famous  teacher  languor  took  the 
place  of  animation, — when  commonplace  traditions 
were  given  instead  of  original  and  striking  thoughts, — 
when  they  perceived  that  his  cheek  was  growing  pale 
and  his  eye  losing  his  fire, — when  they  saw  that  his 
love  had  been  transferred  from  philosophy  to  another 
object,  they  were  sorely  grieved,  and  some  could  not 
refrain  from  tears  at  the  sight  of  that  which  none 
could  behold  without  pain. 

Such  was  the  laxness  of  manners  in  the  Middle 
Age,  or  such  was  the  infatuation  of  Abelard,  that  he 
took  no  pains  to  conceal  the  cause  of  his  pre-occupa- 


102  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tion.  Every  one  in  Paris  knew  it,  except  the  one 
most  interested  to  know  it, — the  uncle  of  Heloise. 
Every  body  spoke  of  his  adventure ;  the  songs  which 
he  composed  and  sung  for  his  mistress  were  scattered 
abroad  and  sung  in  the  streets. 

The  undoubting  Fulbert,  for  a  long  time,  saw  not 
within  his  house  what  all  Paris  saw  from  without. 
So  stupid  was  the  old  canon  that  at  first  he  would  not 
believe  those  who  informed  him  of  the  wrong  that 
Abelard  was  inflicting  upon  his  family.  At  length 
his  heavy  eyes  were  opened,  and  the  lovers  were  con- 
sequently separated. 

The  unhappy  pair  were  overwhelmed  with  grief 
and  shame.  They  grieved  for  each  other  more  than 
for  themselves.  "  How  great,"  says  Abelard,  "  was 
the  grief  of  the  lovers  in  their  separation  !  How 
great  was  my  shame  and  confusion  !  How  great  \\as 
my  contrition  on  beholding  the  affliction  of  this  dear 
girl !  What  tides  of  regret  overwhelmed  her  spirit 
when  she  saw  my  dishonor  !  Each,  while  grieving  for 
the  other,  forgot  self.  Each  deplored  a  single  mis- 
fortune, that  of  the  other."* 

*  It  has  seemed  to  us  that  Abelard's  regard  for  Heloise 
began  in  passion  and  ended  in  love.  It  was  not  the  highest 
kind  of  love,  and  is  not  to  be  compared  with  that  of  Heloise; 
but  we  must  remember  that  he  was  very  busy  with  the 
world,  while  she  was  wholly  occupied  with  sentiment — with 
thoughts  of  her  lover. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  103 

Separation  only  inflamed  their  love.  Regardless 
of  every  thing  but  their  passion  for  each  other,  they 
sought  interviews  that  were  all  the  sweeter  for  being 
stolen.  When  the  cup  of  shame  has  once  been  drunk 
to  the  dregs,  scandal  no  longer  restrains  us.  What 
did  the  two  mad  lovers  care  for  the  reproach  of  the 
world,  while  they  were  to  each  other  all  in  all  ?  * 

Heloise  with  the  highest  exultation  soon  informed 
her  lover  of  the  delicacy  of  her  situation,  and  asked 
him  what  was  to  be  done.  Every  consideration  forbade 
her  longer  stay  in  the  house  of  Fulbert.  To  remove 
her  was  a  hazardous  enterprise,  for  she  was  watched 
by  her  guardian  with  great  vigilance.  One  night,  in 
the  absence  of  the  uncle,  Abelard  entered  the  house 
by  stealth,  removed  Heloise  in  the  disguise  of  a  nun, 
and  secretly  conducted  her  to  Brittany,  his  native 
country. 

*  Actum  itaque  in  nobis  est  quod  in  Marte  et  Venere 
deprehensis  poetica  narrat  fabula. — Ep.  i,  p.  13. 


104  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XIX. 

SECRET  MARRIAGE. 

w  How  oft,  when  pressed  to  marriage,  have  1  said, 
Curse  on  all  laws  but  those  which  love  has  made  ? 
Love,  free  as  air,  at  sight  of  human  ties, 
Spreads  his  light  wings,  and  in  a  moment  flies. 
Let  wealth,  let  honor,  wait  tile  wedded  dame, 
August  her  deed,  and  sacred  he  her  fame ; 
Before  true  passion  all  those  views  remove, 
Fame,  wealth,  and  honor  1  what  are  you  to  Love? 
The  jealous  god,  when  we  profane  his  fires, 
Those  restless  passions  in  revenge  inspires, 
And  Mils  them  make  mistaken  mortals  groan, 
Who  seek  in  love  for  aught  but  love  alone. 
Should  at  my  feet  the  world's  great  master  fall, 
Himself,  his  throne,  his  world,  I'd  scorn  'em  all : 
Not  Caesar's  empress  would  I  deign  to  prove, 
No !  make  me  mistress  to  the  man  I  love ; 
If  there  be  yet  another  name  more  free, 
More  fond  than  mistress,  make  me  that  to  thee ! 
Oh !  happy  state  1  when  souls  each  other  draw, 
When  love  is  liberty,  and  nature  law : 
All  then  is  full,  possessing,  and  possessed  I 
No  craving  void  left  aching  in  the  breast : 
Ev'n  thought  meets  thought,  ere  from  the  lips  it  part, 
And  each  warm  wish  springs  mutual  from  the  heart, 
This  sure  is  bliss  (if  bliss  on  earth  there  be), 
And  once  the  lot  of  Abelard  and  me." 

POPE'S  M  Elotea  to  Abelard." 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  105 

FULBERT,  as  may  well  be  supposed,  was  enraged 
beyond  measure,  when  he  found  that  his  niece  had 
escaped.  At  first  he  had  been  overwhelmed  with 
grief  on  account  of  the  disgrace  that  had  been  brought 
upon  his  family,  and  severely  reproached  himself  with 
being  the  unwitting  instrument  of  the  meeting  of 
Abelard  and  Heloise  ;  but  when  the  perfidious  phi- 
losopher took  advantage  of  his  temporary  absence  to 
remove  the  object  of  his  care  and  solicitation,  anger 
alone  took  possession  of  his  heart.  But  he  knew  not 
how  to  take  vengeance  on  Abelard ;  he  knew  not 
what  plots  to  prepare  for  him,  or  what  injury  to  do 
him.  If  he  killed  the  seducer,  or  severely  wounded 
him,  he  feared  that  his  cherished  niece  might  be  the 
victim  of  vengeance  in  the  hands  of  Abelard's  friends. 
As  to  making  himself  master  of  his  enemy's  person 
by  force,  it  was  an  impracticable  thing,  for  he  was  on 
his  guard,  and  prepared  for  resistance,  if  it  became 
necessary  to  defend  himself. 

Finally,  touched  with  compassion  on  account  of 
the  canon's  grief,  and  accusing  himself  of  treachery, 
Abelard  sought  the  old  man  with  supplications  and 
promises,  offering  to  make  any  reparation  that  might 
be  demanded.  He  reminded  Fulbert  that  his  conduct 
ought  to  surprise  no  one  who  had  experienced  the 
power  of  love,  or  who  was  aware  what  misfortunes 
had  from  the  beginning  of  the  world  befallen  the 

greatest  of  men  through  the  instrumentality  of  women. 
5* 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


And  in  order  to  appease  him  the  more,  he  offered  the 
canon  a  satisfaction  which  surpassed  all  his  hopes,  in 
proposing  to  marry  her  whom  he  had  seduced,  pro- 
vided that  the  marriage  should  be  kept  a  secret,  so  as 
not  to  injure  his  reputation.  Fulbert  consented  ;  he 
engaged  his  own  faith,  and  that  of  his  friends. 

In  the  mean  time,  Heloise,  who  was  sequestered 
with  a  sister  of  Abelard  in  Brittany,*  had  given  birth 
to  a  son,  which  she  called  Pierre  Astrolabus.  When 
he  returned,  therefore,  he  found  a  living  tie  estab- 
lished between  himself  and  the  object  of  his  - 
which  shall  we  call  it,  passion  or  love  ?  She  was 
cheerful,  for,  inasmuch  as  her  reason  had  been  seduced 
with  sophistry,  she  was  without  self-reproach,  and  her 
eyes  were  blessed  with  the  sight  of  a  first-born  son. 

"  I  have  returned,"  said  Abelard,  "  to  take  you 
back  to  Paris,  and  marry  f  you." 

Heloise  smiled,  for  she  supposed  that  he  was 
speaking  in  jest  —  an  unusual  thing  with  him. 

"  Your  uncle,"  he  continues,  "  I  have  seen,  and 
have  promised  to  marry  you.  Do  not  smile,  I  am  in 
earnest;  and  this  promise  has  reconciled  him  to  me." 

"  It  becomes  me  then,"  she  responded  in  a  firm 


*  Epistola  Abselardi,  p.  34. 

f  Epistola  Abselardi,  p.  38. — Heloise  complains  in  one  of 
her  letters,  that  Abelard  has  not  mentioned  some  of  the  ob- 
jections which  she  urged  to  their  marriage. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  107 

tone,  "  to  be  also  serious.  I  tell  you,  my  Abelard, 
frankly,  that  I  cannot  consent  to  become  your  wife." 

"  Your  refusal,"  he  said,  "  is  pronounced  in  a  de- 
cisive manner,  and  I  must  have  your  reasons." 

"  My  reasons  you  shall  certainly  have,"  she  said, 
"  if  you  will  accept  them  in  the  unpremeditated  form 
in  which  I  am  able  to  give  them." 

He  gravely  bowed  an  assent,  with  the  air  of  one 
about  to  engage  in  a  philosophic  disputation,  and  she 
proceeded  : — 

"  If  you  suppose  that  this  step  will  satisfy  my 
uncle  to  the  extent  of  appeasing  his  anger,  you  are 
greatly  deceived.  I  know  him  thoroughly,  and,  you 
may  depend  upon  it,  he  is  implacable.  If  it  be  your 
object  to  save  my  honor,  you  are  surely  mistaken  in 
the  means  you  propose.  Will  your  disgrace  exalt 
me?  From  the  world,  from  the  church,  from  the 
schools  of  philosophy,  what  reproaches  should  I 
merit,  if  I  were  to  take  from  them  their  brightest  star. 
And  shall  a  single  woman  dare  to  take  to  herself  that 
man  whom  nature  meant  to  be  the  ornament  and  bene- 
factor of  the  race  ?  No,  Abelard  !  I  am  not  yet  so 
selfish  and  shameless.  Then  think  of  the  state  of 
matrimony  itself.  With  its  petty  troubles  and  its  cares, 
how  inconsistent  it  is  with  the  dignity  of  a  wise  man  ! " 

She  then  fortifies  her  position  by  quotations  from 
the  Apostle  Paul,  from  St.  Jerome,  and  from  the 
philosopher  Cicero,  and  thus  continues  : — 


108  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

"  To  pass  by  the  impediments  which  a  woman 
would  bring  to  your  study  of  philosophy,  think  of 
the  situation  in  which  a  lawful  alliance  would  place 
you.  What  relation,  tell  me,  can  there  be  between 
schools  and  domestics,  writing-desks  and  cradles, 
books  and  distaffs,  pens  and  spindles  ?  Who,  in  fine, 
that  is  devoted  to  religious  or  philosophic  medita- 
tions, could  endure  the  crying  of  children,  the  lullaby 
of  nurses  trying  to  still  them,  and  the  turbulent 
bustling  of  disorderly  servants  ?  Who  could  bear  the 
care  and  trouble  of  children  at  an  age  when  they  are 
entirely  dependent  ?  These  inconveniences,  you  say, 
can  be  avoided  in  the  houses  of  the  rich.  That  is 
true,  for  the  opulent  do  not  mind  expense,  and  they 
are  not  tormented  with  daily  anxieties.  But  the 
condition  of  philosophers  is  not  the  same  as  that  of 
the  rich ;  and  those  who  are  seeking  fortune,  or 
whose  life  is  devoted  to  worldly  affairs,  have  no  time 
to  study  philosophy  and  divinity.  Hence,  the  re- 
nowned philosophers  of  former  times  have  contemned 
the  world,  have  shunned  rather  than  abandoned  mun- 
dane pursuits,  have  interdicted  themselves  all  plea- 
sures, in  order  that  they  might  repose  in  the  arms  of 
philosophy  alone. 

"  One  of  the  greatest  of  these  says,  in  his  instruc- 
tions to  Lucilius  :  *  c  Philosophy  de'mands  any  thing 

*  Seneca. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  109 

else  but  leisure :  all  things  are  to  be  neglected  that 
we  may  devote  ourselves  to  that  for  which  no  time 
is  sufficiently  great.  It  makes  little  difference  whether 
you  omit  philosophy  or  intermit  it ;  for  it  does  not 
remain,  when  it  is  interrupted.  Occupations  are  to 
be  resisted ;  they  are  not  to  be  managed,  but  put 
away  ! ' 

u  What  with  us  the  monks,  who  are  worthy  of 
bearing  the  name,  do  for  the  love  of  God,  the  philoso- 
phers who  have  been  renowned  among  the  Gentiles, 
have  done  for  the  love  of  philosophy.  For  among  all 
the  peoples  of  the  earth,  whether  Gentile,  Jewish,  or 
Christian,  some  have  always  been  found  pre-eminent 
above  others  in  faith  or  purity  of  manners,  and  dis- 
tinguished from  the  crowd  by  some  peculiarity  of 
continence  or  abstinence. 

"  Among  the  Jews  in  ancient  times,  such  were 
the  Nazarenes,  who  devoted  themselves  to  the  service 
of  the  Lord  in  conformity  to  the  law,  who,  according 
to  the  testimony  of  St.  Jerome,  are  represented  in 
the  Old  Testament  as  monks ;  at  a  later  period,  the 
three  philosophic  sects,  which  Josephus  in  the  eigh- 
teenth book  of  his  Antiquities,  calls  Pharisees,  Sad- 
ducees,  and  Essenes;  among  us,  the  monks,  who 
imitate  the  common  life  of  the  apostles,  or  the  primi- 
tive and  solitary  life  of  John ;  finally,  among  the 
Gentiles,  those  who  are  called  philosophers,  for  they 
applied  the  term  wisdom,  or  philosophy,  not  so  much 


110  LIVKS    AND    LETTERS    OF 

to  an  acquaintance  with  science  as  to  sanctity  of  life, 
as  we  may  be  easily  convinced  by  the  etymology  of 
the  word  and  the  testimony  of  the  saints  themselves. 
Such  is,  among  others,  that  of  St.  Augustine,  in  Book 
XVIII.  of  the  de  Civitate  Dei,  in  which  he  points  out 
the  distinction  between  philosophic  sects :  '  The 
Italian  school  had  for  its  founder  Pythagoras  of 
Samos,  from  whom  it  is  said  the  name  of  philosophy 
took  its  rise.  Previous  to  him,  those  men  were  called 
sages,  who  seemed  to  excel  others  by  a  kind  of  life 
worthy  of  laudation ;  but  he,  when  interrogated  one 
day  in  regard  to  his  profession,  responded  that  he 
was  a  philosopher, — that  is,  a  seeker  or  lover  of  wis- 
dom, inasmuch  as  he  seemed  to  be  extremely  arro- 
gant, who  made  a  profession  of  being  wise.'"* 


*  What  a  speech  for  an  injured  girl  to  make  to  her  lover 
who  hoped  to  mend  all  by  marriage !  In  her  the  most 
astonishing  erudition  and  sagacity  are  combined.  She  con- 
tinues her  quotation  of  authorities;  but  of  the  rest  of  the 
speech  we  give  a  paraphrase  rather  than  a  translation.  Like 
every  noble  woman,  she  would  be  loved  wholly  for  her  own 
sake.  Her  lover  must  adhere  to  her,  because  he  loves  her, 
not  because  he  is  bound  by  any  laws,  human  or  divine.  Any 
fault  she  can  pardon,  but  the  one  fault  of  being  indifferent 
towards  her.  Her  love  is  so  intense  that  bindimr  it  with  any 
out  ward  chain  of  marriage  seems  superfluous,  and  like  mock- 
ery. Few,  like  Heloise,  can  fulfil  the  law  of  marriage  by 
lu-iiiiT  above  the  law.  Church  and  State,  then,  must  not  cease 
to  demand  public  vows  from  those  who  would  enter  into  the 
conjugal  relation. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  Ill 

"  From  this  passage  it  is  evident  that  the  sages  of 
antiquity  were  called  philosophers,  not  so  much  on 
account  of  their  superior  knowledge,  as  on  account  of 
their  goodness.  As  to  their  continence  and  sobriety, 
I  shall  not  attempt  to  collect  the  proofs  ;  I  should 
appear  like  one  attempting  to  instruct  the  goddess 
of  wisdom  herself.  But  if  laymen  and  gentiles  have 
lived  thus,  although  they  were  free  from  all  religious 
vows,  you,  who  are  a  clerk,  and  bound  to  the  duties 
of  a  canon,  ought  not  to  prefer  shameless  pleasures  to 
your  sacred  ministry ;  to  precipitate  yourself  into 
an  ingulfing  Charybdis,  and,  braving  every  shame, 
plunge  irrevocably  into  an  abyss  of  impurity.  If  the 
prerogatives  of  the  church  weigh  lightly  with  you, 
maintain  at  least  the  dignity  of  philosophy.  If  you 
have  no  religious  scruples,  let  the  sentiment  of  de- 
cency temper  your  rashness.  Remember  that  Socrates 
was  a  married  man,  and  how  bitterly  he  expiated 
such  an  offence  to  philosophy ;  others,  warned  by  his 
example,  should  be  made  more  cautious." 

She  also  represented  to  Abelard  the  danger  that 
would  await  him  on  his  return  to  Paris,  and,  with  un- 
paralleled generosity,  declared  to  him  that  the  title 
of  lover  would  be  more  precious  to  her  and  more 
honorable  to  him  than  that  of  wife ;  that  she  wished 
to  retain  liim  through  his  tenderness  for  her,  and  not 
to  hold  him  enchained  in  the  bonds  of  matrimony. 
Would  not  their  meetings,  after  momentary  separa- 


112  LIVES    AM)     LKTTKKS    OF 

tions,  be  the  more  charming,  because  more  rare? 
.Finally,  perceiving  that  her  efforts  to  convince  Abe- 
lard  and  change  his  resolution  were  unavailing,  sigh- 
ing deeply  and  weeping,  she  terminated  her  speech  in 
these  prophetic  *  words  :  "  It  is  the  only  thing  that 
remains  for  us  to  do  in  order  to  destroy  ourselves,  and 
bring  upon  ourselves  a  misery  as  deep  as  the  love  that 
preceded  it." 

Recommending  their  young  child  to  the  sister  of 
Abelard,  they  returned  secretly  to  Paris.  A  few 
days  later,  having  passed  the  night  in  celebrating 
vigils  in  a  certain  church,  at  the  dawn  of  morning 
they  received  the  nuptial  benediction  in  the  presence 
of  Fulbert  and  several  of  his  friends  and  theirs,  f 

*  The  instinctive  judgment  of  woman,  that  results  from 
quickness  of  perception  and  fineness  of  organization,  that  she 
cannot  clearly  express,  because  it  is  intuitive;  that  sometimes 
makes  her  seem  obstinate  because  her  conviction  lies  deeper 
than  the  understanding,  and  is  therefore  to  herself  inexpli- 
cable,— this  instinctive  judgment  is  often  better  than  the 
articulate  judgment  of  man,  that  loses  in  penetration  more 
than  it  gains  in  clearness  of  form. 

f  Nocte  secretis  orationum  vigiliis  in  quadam  ecclesid 
celebratis,  ibidem  summo  man&,  avunculo  ejus  atque  quibus- 
dam  nostris  vel  ipsiusamicis  assentibus,  nuptiali  benedictione 
confsederamur. — JEpistola  Abcelardi,  p.  48. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  113 


XX. 

RETRIBUTION. 

Alas  how  changed !  what  sudden  horrors  rise  I 
A  naked  Lover  bound  and  bleeding  lies  ! 
Where,  where  was  Eloise  ?  her  voice,  her  hand, 
Her  poniard,  had  opposed  the  dire  command. 
Barbarian,  stay  I  that  bloody  stroke  restrain ; 
The  crime  was  common,  common  be  the  pain. 
I  can  no  more ;  by  shame,  by  rage  suppressed, 
Let  tears  and  burning  blushes  speak  the  rest 

POPE'S  "Eloiae  to  Abelard? 

AFTER  their  marriage,  Heloise  returned  to  the 
house  of  her  uncle,  and  Abelard  went  to  his  own 
habitation.  He  saw  her  but  seldom,  and  then  in 
some  disguise,  or  in  the  most  secret  manner.  Every 
precaution  was  taken  to  keep  his  marriage  with  the 
niece  of  Fulbert  a  secret. 

Concealment  is  impossible ;  "  murder  will  out ;  " 
"  every  hidden  thing  shall  be  revealed."  It  soon  began 
to  be  rumored  that  the  great  philosopher  had  been 
shorn  of  his  locks  by  a  fair  Delilah,  who,  after  de- 
priving him  of  his  strength,  had  entangled  him  in  the 
net  of  matrimony.  Officious  friends  of  Fulbert  de- 
clared that  the  only  way  to  retrieve  the  honor  of  his 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


house  was  to  make  public  the  marriage  of  his  niece 
with  her  seducer.  Perhaps  the  canon  never  intended 
to  keep  his  promise  ;  perhaps  he  was  influenced  by  his 
friends;  at  all  events,  his  sworn  faith  was  broken. 
Every  opportunity  was  embraced  by  those  connected 
with  his  house,  to  make  known  the  secret  marriage  of 
Heloise  and  Abelard. 

The  friends  of  the  philosopher  grieved  over  his 
folly  in  relinquishing  his  chances  of  preferment  in  the 
church  by  espousing  his  mistress.  How  foolish  to  lay 
his  hand  on  the  distaff,  when  the  crosier  was  within 
his  reach,  and  the  mitre  was  not  beyond  his  ambitious 
hopes  ! 

Far  otherwise  was  it  with  the  friends  of  Heloise, 
Her  honor  had  been  retrieved,  and  every  thing  had 
been  attained  that  even  ambition  could  desire.  Many 
a  noble  lady  would  have  considered  herself  honored 
by  the  offered  hand  of  Abelard  ;  how  great,  then,  was 
the  fortune  of  the  obscure  niece  of  Fulbert,  in  obtain- 
ing him  for  a  husband  !  Her  marriage  was  soon  made 
the  subject  of  conversation  in  every  house  in  Paris  ; 
and  many,  moved  by  envy,  comforted  themselves  by 
recounting  the  dishonorable  and  unpleasant  circum- 
stances that  attended  it. 

Abelard  and  Heloise,  however,  strenuously  denied  * 
their  marriage.  Who  should  know  so  well  as  they  ? 

*  Epistola  Abaelardi,  p.  50. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  115 

Fulbert  was  telling  a  falsehood,  in  the  vain  hope  of 
saving  the  honor  of  his  house.  Heloise,  with  con- 
summate art,  looked  wholly  ignorant  of  their  meaning, 
when  her  friends  began  to  congratulate  her  on  her 
new  dignity ;  she  laughed  at  the  ridiculous  story,  and 
solemnly  protested  that  it  was  false.  Abelard  re- 
turned to  his  scholars,  and  again  rejoiced  their  hearts 
with  his  devotiom  to  philosophy,  and  charmed  them 
anew  with  his  brilliant  and  eloquent  lectures.  How 
absurd  to  suppose  that  such  a  master  of  learning,  such 
a  miracle  of  genius,  such  a  princely  professor,  whose 
fame  reached  to  the  ends  of  the  civilized  world,  for 
whom  the  beautiful  and  the  high-born  were  sighing, 
would  surrender  dignities,  and  relinquish  all  hope  of 
advancement,  by  uniting  himself  in  the  bonds  of  wed- 
lock with  a  poor  girl !  The  story  was  soon  discre- 
dited, and  the  efforts  of  Fulbert  were  counteracted. 

When  the  old  man  found  that  he  had  not  only 
failed,  in  his  endeavor  to  make  public  the  secret 
marriage,  but  was  also  bearing  himself  the  imputation 
of  falsehood,  he  was  greatly  exasperated.  The  full  sense 
of  his  injury  returned,  and  his  rage  vented  itself  on 
the  hapless  Heloise.  Was  she  not  a  senseless  ingrate, 
careless  of  her  own  reputation,  and  regardless  of  the 
honor  of  her  protector  and  benefactor  ?  Heloise  had 
a  husband,  and,  like  every  woman  that  greatly  loves, 
was  ready  to  sacrifice  every  thing  for  the  sake  of  the 
beloved.  She  bore  ill-treatment  in  patience,  until  she 


116  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

feared  that  she  might  be  deprived  of  the  occasional 
visits  of  Abelard;  she  then  made  known  to  him  the 
unpleasantness  of  her  situation.  Again  he  removed 
her  by  night,  in  the  habit  of  a  nun.  The  nuns  of 
Argenteuil,  with  whom,  as  we  have  already  seen,  she 
had  spent  the  years  of  her  childhood,  received  with 
joy  their  ancient  pupil.  At  the  request  of  Abelard, 
they  permitted  Heloise  to  assume,  with  the  exception 
of  the  veil,  the  dress  of  the  convent. 

Fulbert  and  his  friends  supposed  that  Abelard  had 
removed  Heloise  to  the  convent,  in  order  to  get  rid 
of  her.  A  plan  of  vengeance  was  soon  agreed  upon. 
Four  hired  assassins,  with  directions  to  maim,  but 
not  to  kill,  proceeded  by  night  to  the  house  of  the 
philosopher.  One  of  his  servants  had  been  bribed, 
and  showed  them  the  way  to  his  sleeping  apartment.* 
The  perpetrators  of  the  deed  fled.  Two  of  them 
were  caught,  and,  with  the  treacherous  servant,  were 
severely  punished. f 

*  "Und&  vehementer  indignati,  et  adversum  me  conju- 
rati,  nocte  quddam  quiescentem  me  atque  dormientem  in 
eecreta  hospitii  mei  camera,  quodam  rnihi  servientem  per 
pcru niam  corrupto,  crudelissimfi,  et  pudentissima  ultione 
pun ir runt,  et  quam  summa  admiratione  mundus  exec-] 
vi« !•  licet  corporis  mei  partibus  amputatis  quibus  id,  quod 
plangebnnt,  commiseram." — Epistola  Abcelardi,  p.  50. 

•(•  "Quibus  mox  in  fugam  conversis,  duo,  qui  compre- 
hend! potuerunt,  oculis  et  gentialibus  privati  sunt.  Quorum 
alter  ille  fuit  supra  dictus  serviens  qui,  cum  in  obsequio  meo 
mecum  maueret,  cupiditate  ad  proditionem  ductus  est." 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  117 

"  When  the  morning  came,"  says  Abelard,*  "  the 
whole  city  was  assembled  around  my  dwelling.  How 
much  they  were  stunned  with  astonishment — how 
much  they  afflicted  themselves  with  lamentations — 
how  much  they  vexed  me  with  their  clamor — how 
much  they  disturbed  me  with  complaints,  it  is  diffi- 
cult, even  impossible  to  express.  The  churchmen 
chiefly,  and  especially  my  disciples,  crucified  me  with 
their  insupportable  cries  of  lamentation,  so  that  their 
compassion  was  more  cruel  than  the  pain  of  my 
wound,  so  that  I  felt  shame  more  keenly  than  bodily 
torture.  I  thought  of  the  glory  which  had  been  lost 
in  a  moment,  of  the  just  judgment  of  God  that  had 
overtaken  me,  of  the  treachery  for  treachery  which 
had  been  rendered  me  by  Fulbert,  of  the  triumph 
that  awaited  my  enemies,  of  the  grief  that  my  parents 
and  friends  would  feel ; — I  thought  how  the  public 
would  be  occupied  with  my  infamy — how  I  could  ap- 
pear abroad,  when  I  should  be  a  monstrous  spectacle 
to  all,  pointed  at  by  every  finger,  and  spoken  of  by 
every  tongue." 

We  pity  thee,  Abelard ;  yet  it  seems  to  be  the 
hand  of  eternal  justice  that  is  laid  upon  thee.  Words 
of  solemn  import  were  unheeded  by  thee — words 
written  by  the  finger  of  the  Infinite, — pride  goeth 
before  destruction,  and  a  haughty  spirit  before  a  fall. 

*  Epistola  Abselardi,  p.  52. 


118  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

This  is  but  the  beginning  of  calamities — torture  of 
soul,  far  more  insupportable  than  torture  of  body, 
awaits  tLee.  No  hero,  no  martyr  art  thou,  suffering 
for  obedience  to  the  just  and  the  true ;  but  a  violator 
of  the  high  law  of  brotherhood,  bearing  the  penalty  of 
misdeeds.  We  must  remind  thee  that  the  universe  is 
constructed  on  a  basis  of  rectitude,  and  resign  thee  to 
thy  fate.* 

*  Many  will  charge  us  with  severity  towards  Abelard ; 
but  we  cannot,  in  conscience,  address  him  otherwise.  We 
believe  in  driving  money-changers  out  of  the  temple  of 
God,  in  crying  "  woe"  into  the  ears  of  Scribes  and  Pharisees, 
in  laving  the  rod  upon  the  back  of  fools.  Mercy  should 
always  temper  justice ;  but  we  open  wide  the  flood-gates  of 
evil,  and  are  most  unmerciful  when  we  dethrone  justice,  and 
shield  the  criminal  from  the  penalty  of  his  crime.  Our  times 
are  cursed  with  a  kind  of  nerveless  sentimentality,  that  whines 
over  the  scoundrel,  and  has  no  pity  for  society  that  the 
scoundrel  scourges  beyond  measure.  Would  to  heaven  that 
the  punishment  which  overtook  Abelard,  might  be  sternly 
visited,  by  legislative  enactment,  upon  every  lawless  breaker 
of  the  household  gods  1 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  119 


XXI. 

THE  VEIL  AND  THE  COWL. 

Canst  thou  forget  that  sad,  that  solemn  day, 
When  victims  at  yon  altar's  foot  we  lay ! 
Canst  thou  forget  what  tears  that  moment  fell, 
When,  warm  in  youth,  I  bade  the  world  farewell? 
As  with  cold  lips  I  kissed  the  sacred  veil, 
The  shrines  all  trembled,  and  the  lamps  grew  pale ; 
Heav'n  scarce  believed  the  conquest  it  surveyed, 
And  Saints  with  wonder  heard  the  vows  I  made : 
Yet  then,  to  those  dread  altars  as  I  drew, 
Not  on  the  Cross  my  eyes  were  fixed,  but  you! 
Not  grace,  or  zeal,  love  only  was  my  call, 
And  if  I  lose  thy  love,  I  lose  my  all 

POPE'S  "  Elviaa  to  Abelard." 

ABELARD  had  no  courage  left  to  encounter  the  world. 
His  philosophy  could  not  heal  his  wounded  heart. 
His  bruised  spirit  was  bowed  with  recollections  of 
deeds  that  conscience  condemned,  and  there  was  re- 
maining within  him  no  strength  to  withstand  the  ridi- 
cule of  his  enemies.  The  convent  alone  promised 
him  refuge  from  those  that  laughed  at  his  misfortunes, 
and  an  asylum  where  he  could  hope  to  find  any  peace 
for  his  agitated  mind  and  troubled  soul. 


120  LIVES   AND    LETTERS    OF 

His  resolution  was  conveyed  to  Heloise,  and  he 
proposed  that  she  should  follow  his  example.  She 
was  then  but  nineteen  years  of  age — just  in  the  bloom 
of  youth.  She  loved  Abelard,  and  him  alone ;  her 
heart  had  chosen  him  for  "better  or  for  worse."  It 
was  hard  to  give  up  the  world,  but  she  had  no  power, 
no  wish  to  resist  the  will  of  him  to  whom  she  had  al- 
ready yielded  whatever  is  most  precious  within  the 
gift  of  woman.  A  generous  man,  it  would  seem  to 
us,  ought  to  have  been  contented  with  her  assurance 
of  abiding  affection,  with  a  proposal  to  live  the  life  of 
a  voluntary  recluse,  without  obliging  her  to  take 
upon  herself  the  obligation  of  eternal  vows,  but  the 
jealous  Abelard  did  not  wish  to  leave  any  chance  for 
others  to  possess  that  which  he  could  not  enjoy.  He 
demanded  her  compliance,  and  she,  of  course,  having 
no  will,  in  the  excess  of  her  love,  but  his  will,  was 
obedient.  "  At  your  command,"  said  she,  long  after- 
wards, "  I  changed  my  habit  as  well  as  my  inclination, 
in  order  to  show  you  that  you  were  the  only  master 
of  my  heart." 

Even  this  was  not  enough  to  satisfy  him.  He  re- 
quired her  not  only  to  take  the  veil,  but  to  take  it 
previously  to  his  bowing  his  own  head  to  receive  the 
cowl.  Abelard  could  go  no  further ;  there  was 
nothing  more  that  he  could  ask,  nothing  more  that  she 
could  give.  "  When  you  were  hastening  to  devote 
yourself  to  Grod,"  she  said,  "  I  followed  you ;  yes,  I 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  121 

preceded  you.  For,  as  if  mindful  of  the  wife  of  Lot, 
who  looked  behind  her,  in  the  sacred  habit  and  monas- 
tic profession,  you  bound  me  to  God  before  you  bound 
yourself.  In  that  one  instance,  I  confess,  I  grieved 
and  blushed  for  your  mistrust  of  me ;  but  I,  God 
knows,  should  not  have  hesitated  to  follow  you*  at 
your  command,  if  you  had  been  hastening  to  perdi- 
tion." 

The  day  soon  came  when  Heloise  was  to  take  the 
veil,  and  for  ever  relinquish  the  world.  Great  was  the 
crowd  that  gathered  at  Argenteuil.  The  Bishop  of 
Paris  officiated.  The  holy  veil  was  blessed  and  laid 
upon  the  altar.  The  gates  of  the  cloister  were  opened, 
and  Heloise  appeared.  Her  features  still  bore  the 
impress  of  lofty  intelligence  and  heroism,  but  grief 
had  added  a  softness  and  a  sweetness  all  its  own.  She 
wore  a  look  of  resignation  to  her  fate,  rather  than  of  high 
religious  enthusiasm  and  eagerness  to  leave  the  world. 
The  crowd  was  at  first  silent,  but  soon  every  heart 
throbbed  with  compassion  for  the  fair  young  Heloise, 
who  was  about  to  take  upon  herself  vows  that  may 
not  be  broken,  at  the  command  of  an  ungenerous 
lover.  The  passage  to  the  altar  was  impeded ;  friends 
spoke  to  her  of  her  charms  and  urged  her  not  to  pro- 
ceed. Her  bosom  was  convulsed  with  sobs,  tears 
showered  down  her  cheeks,  yet  her  thoughts  were 
only  of  him  whom  she  loved  too  well.  She  was  heard 
to  utter,  at  a  moment  when  her  soul  should  have  been 


122  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

occupied  with  thoughts  of  God,  the  apostrophe  of 
Cornelia  in  Lucan  :  "  0  my  husband,  greatest  of  men, 
who  didst  deserve  a  far  happier  bride  than  I.  Fate 
had  thus  much  power  over  thy  illustrious  head  !  Why, 
wretch  that  I  am,  did  I  marry  thee  to  thy  undoing  ? 
Now  art  thou  avenged  ;  willingly  do  I  sacrifice  myself 
to  expiate  my  crime."  * 

The  crowd  gave  way  before  her ;  she  mounted  the 
altar,  covered  her  face  with  the  consecrated  veil,  and, 
with  a  firm  voice,  pronounced  the  vows  that  released 
her  from  all  things  human,  that  in  the  language  of 
the  church,  made  her  the  spouse  of  Christ. 

A  few  days  after  Heloise  had  taken  the  veil  at 
Argenteuil,  Abelard  entered  the  Abbey  of  Saint 
Denis.  It  was  rather  his  object  to  escape  the  gaze 
of  men,  than  to  find  a  place  sacred  to  religious  medi- 
tation, and  the  worship  of  God.f  He  takes  with  him 
his  pride  and  his  restless  spirit ;  foes  will  multiply  on 
every  hand,  in  contention  with  whom  the  best  of  his 
life  must  be  wasted.  Heloise,  through  long  years  of 
silent  sorrow,  will  think  much  of  God,  but  more  of 
him  whose  image  is  constantly  before  her,  whom  her 
great  heart  so  profoundly  loves. 

*  O  maxime  conjux! 

O  thalamis  indigne  rneis !  hoc  juris  habebat 
In  tantum  fortuna  caput  ?     Cur  irnpio  nupsi, 
Si  miserum  factura  fui  ?     Nunc  accipe  poenas, 
Sed  quas  sponte  luam.  LUCAN,  1.  viii 

f  Epistola  Abselardi,  p.  54. 


ABELARD  AND  HELO1SE.  123 


XXII. 

NO  OBJECT  AND  NO  REST:  A  MONODRAMA 

AT  the  Abbey  of  St.  Denis,  meditations  of  vengeance,* 
at  first,  wholly  occupied  the  mind  of  Abelard.  He 
imagined  that  the  bishop  of  Paris  and  the  canons  had 
united  in  a  plot  to  destroy  him,  and  it  was  with  diffi- 
culty that  he  was  restrained  from  undertaking  a  jour- 
ney to  Rome,  in  order  to  accuse  them  before  the 
Pope.  Men  are  prone  to  impute  to  the  machinations 
of  others  the  calamities  that  follow  their  own  mis- 
deeds. 

The  clerks,  and  the  Abbe  of  St.  Denis,  urged  the 
new  comer  to  resume  his  lectures,  to  instruct  the  poor 
and  humble  servants  of  God,  with  the  same  zeal  that 
he  had  displayed  in  teaching  the  noble  and  the  rich. 
Abelard  hesitated.  He  was  seeking  retirement  from 
the  world,  and  wished  to  shun  the  sight  of  men.  They 
expected,  on  their  part,  from  the  acquisition  of  the 
illustrious  philosopher,  new  renown  for  the  abbey  that 
had  been,  since  its  foundation  by  Dagobert,  a  pet  of 

*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  70. 


124  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

the  kings  of  France,  and  was  one  of  the  institutions 
of  the  monarchy.  The  new  monk,  who  had  been  ac- 
customed to  rule,  complained  of  the  irregular  life  of 
the  brothers,  and  accused  the  abbe  himself  of  grave 
disorders.*  His  imprudent  reproaches  soon  made  him 
obnoxious  to  the  whole  fraternity,  and  they,  in  hopes 
of  getting  rid  of  him,  urged  him  to  yield  to  the  im- 
portunities of  his  disciples,  and  commence  again  the 
work  of  instruction.  With  much  reluctance  he  com- 
plied with  the  request  of  friends  and  foes,  and,  in 
1 120,  established  himself  in  the  priory  of  Maisoncelle, 
which  was  situated  on  the  lands  of  the  Count  of 
Champagne. 

An  auditory  of  three  thousand  students,  it  is  said, 
soon  collected  to  listen  to  the  lectures  of  the  renowned 
master.  That  obscure  place  could  not  supply  them 
with  lodgings  or  food.  Misfortune  had  saddened  the 
heart  of  Abelard,  and  his  teaching  was  more  deeply 
tinged  with  religion  than  it  had  ever  been  before. 
Like  Origen,  however,  he  explained  every  thing ;  he 
philosophized  theology,  thus  to  speak,  and  placed  rea- 
son above  faith,  f  Other  schools  were  drained  of 
their  pupils,  and  the  masters  were  made  hostile  by 
jealousy  towards  a  successful  rival.  His  right  to 
teach  was  questioned,  and  the  substance  of  his  teach- 
ing was  declared  to  be  unsound.  The  clergy,  of  every 

*  Ep.  Abelard,  p.  58.  f  EP-  Abaelardi,  p.60 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  125 

rank  and  order,  was  stirred  up  against  him.  Sur- 
rounded by  grateful  and  obedient  disciples,  and  long 
since  accustomed  to  despise  his  enemies,  Abelard 
thought  to  brave  the  storm  and  risk  the  combined  op- 
position of  teachers  and  ecclesiastics,  without  taking 
any  pains  to  defend  himself  against  their  machina- 
tions. 

In  the  mean  time  he  wrote  his  work  entitled  Intro- 
duction to  Theology,  which  was  a  kind  of  resume,  in 
some  sort  a  digest,  of  his  lectures.  Its  success  was 
great,  and  called  forth  many  attacks  from  the  ecclesi- 
astics. In  answer  to  them,  he  published  a  biting  in- 
vective against  those  ignorant  of  dialectics,  who  took 
his  dogmas  for  sophisms. 

Elsewhere,  however,  two  ancient  foes  of  Abelard 
were  quietly  plotting  his  destruction.  Alberic  and 
Lotalphus,*  who  had  been  his  fellow  pupils  at  the 
school  of  Anselm  of  Laon,  were  at  the  head  of  the 
schools  of  Eheims,  and  had  not  forgotten  the  van- 
quisher of  their  ancient  teacher.  Alberic  was  arch- 
deacon of  the  cathedral,  prior  of  St.  Sixtus,  and  was 
in  high  credit  with  Raoul,  his  archbishop.  The  two 
professors  prevailed  upon  the  archbishop  to  come  to 
an  understanding  with  the  bishop  of  Palestrina,  who 
was  then  fulfilling  the  functions  of  a  legate  of  the 
Holy  See  in  the  states  of  Gaul,  to  convoke,  under  the 

*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  78.— Ep.  Abselardi,  p.  62. 


126  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OP 

name  of  a  council  or  provincial  synod,  a  conventicle 
at  Soissons,  for  the  purpose  of  trying  Abelard.  He 
was  accused  of  applying  the  principles  of  nominalism 
to  the  dogma  of  the  Trinity.  It  was  in  the  year  1121, 
when  the  philosopher  repaired  to  Soissons,  perfectly 
willing  to  engage  in  any  public  discussion  on  the  topic. 
The  clergy  and  people  of  that  place  had  been  preju- 
diced against  him,  and  some  of  his  disciples  came 
near  being  stoned.  The  philosopher  put  his  book  in 
the  hands  of  the  legate,  deferring  to  his  judgment, 
and  expressing,  beforehand,  his  willingness  to  retract 
any  thing  that  might  be  at  variance  with  the  Catholic 
faith.  The  embarrassed  legate  returned  the  book, 
and  referred  him  to  the  archbishop  and  his  counsel- 
lors. They  did  not  seem  to  find  any  thing  heretical, 
and  deferred  judgment  until  the  close  of  the  council. 

The  public,  moved  perhaps  by  mere  curiosity, 
wished  to  see  Abelard,  and  he  appeared  day  after  day, 
exposing  his  doctrines  and  winning  admiration.  "  He 
harangues  the  public,"  it  was  said,  "and  no  one  an- 
swers him  !  The  council  draws  to  a  close,  a  council 
assembled  chiefly  on  his  account ;  and  in  regard  to 
him  no  question  is  raised  !  Will  the  judges  acknow- 
ledge that  the  error  was  on  their  side  ?" 

Alberic,  with  some  of  his  followers,*  called  on 
Abelard  one  day,  and  after  paying  him  some  empty 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  87.— Ep.  Abcelardi,  p.  6-4. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  127 

compliments,  finally  expressed  his  astonishment  at  a 
certain  doctrine  which  he  had  found  in  the  philoso- 
pher's book. 

"  If  you  wish,"  replied  Abelard,  "I  will  give  you 
a  reason  for  it." 

"  We  make  no  account,"  said  Alberic,  "of  human 
reasons,  as  well  as  of  our  sense  in  such  matters ;  we 
ask  the  words  of  authority." 

Abelard  opened  the  book,  and  showed  him  that 
the  doctrine  in  question  had  been  substantiated  by  a 
citation  from  St.  Augustine,  a  recognized  authority  in 
the  church. 

Alberic's  disciples  were  surprised  and  confused, 
and  he  answered  that  "  it  was  necessary  to  understand 
the  passage  rightly." 

"Fine  news!"  instantly  replied  Abelard;  "but 
you  demand  a  text  and  not  sense.  If  you  wish  sense 
and  reason,  I  am  ready  to  give  them." 

Alberic,  highly  enraged,  responded  that,  in  this 
affair,  neither  authorities  nor  reasons  should  serve 
him,  thus  intimating,; perhaps,  that  they  were  plotting 
against  him  in  secret,  and  that  they  were  quite  sure 
of  success  in  effecting  his  destruction. 

The  last  day  of  the  council  arrived,  and  nothing 
decisive,  as  yet,  had  been  done  touching  Abelard  and 
his  book.  The  bishop  of  Chartres,  who  was  friendly 
to  Abelard,  perceiving  their  embarrassment,  took  ad- 
vantage of  it,  and  exhorted  to  moderation.  He  re- 


128  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

minded  them  of  the  high  position  and  great  talents 
of  Abelard,  and  advised  that  the  accused  should  be 
allowed  to  respond.  This  counsel  was  received  with 
murmurs,  for  no  one  could  hope  for  any  success  in  a 
debate  with  the  subtle  dialectician.  It  was  then  re- 
commended that  the  philosopher  should  be  conducted 
back  to  St.  Denis  by  the  abbe,  who  was  then  present, 
and  that  he  should  be  tried,  at  some  subsequent  pe- 
riod, by  a  larger  council.  The  legate  assented  to 
this  advice,  and  all  seemed  to  concur.  The  enemies 
of  Abelard,  however,  who  perceived  that  thus  he 
would  be  placed  beyond  their  influence,  persuaded  the 
archbishop  to  bring  the  affair  to  an  issue  at  once.  The 
accused  was  called,  and  appeared  before  the  council. 
It  was  alleged  that  he  was  guilty  of  the  heresy  of  Sa- 
bellius,  that  is,  of  having  denied  or  weakened  the  re- 
ality of  three  persons  in  the  Trinity.  He  was  judged 
without  discussion,  and  condemned  without  examina- 
tion. He  was  compelled  to  throw  his  book,  with  his 
own  hand,  into  the  flames.  After  a  day  of  suffering 
and  humiliation,  Abelard  was  placed  in  the  keeping 
of  the  abbe  of  Saint  Medard,  and  conducted  by  him, 
as  a  prisoner,  to  his  convent. 

The  brothers  of  Saint  Medard  treated  the  con- 
demned philosopher  more  like  a  guest  than  a  prisoner. 
They  showed  him  every  attention,  and  were  uniformly 
kind.  Nothing,  however,  could  console  him.  His 
despair  reached  such  a  pitch  of  madness,  that  he 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  129 

accused  God  himself  of  having  abandoned  him.* 
Strangely  were  the  heroes  of  thought  treated  in  the 
twelfth  century ;  strangely  have  they  been  treated  in 
every  age. 

The  judgment  of  the  council,  however,  did  not 
meet  with  general  approbation.  Many  disavowed 
their  own  vote,  and  the  legate  publicly  attributed  the 
affair  to  the  jealousy  of  the  French  ;  repenting  of  the 
whole  proceeding,  he  finally  returned  Abelard  to  his 
own  convent. 

At  St.  Denis  fresh  trials  awaited  the  restless 
and  disappointed  monk.  He  had  not  been  for- 
gotten in  the  mean  time  by  his  old  enemies  in  the  ab- 
bey. Reading,  one  day,  in  the  commentary  of  Bede 
the  Venerable  upon  the  Acts  of  the  Apostles,  that 
Denis,  the  Areopagite,  had  been  bishop  of  Corinth, 
and  not  bishop  of  Athens,  he  was  imprudent  enough 
to  express  a  doubt  that  the  one  whom  the  monks  re- 
garded as  the  founder  of  their  abbey,  had  ever  set 
foot  in  Gaul.f  This  at  once  raised  a  storm.  When 
questioned  by  the  indignant  brothers,  he  was  rash 
enough  to  defend  the  authority  of  Bede  against  that 
of  Hilduin,  whose  testimony  was  quoted  in  opposition 
to  him.  Touching  this  legend,  was  questioning  the 
religion  of  the  crown,  and  the  indignant  fraternity 
refused  to  accept  any  reparation.  In  full  assembly 

*  Ep.  Abselardi,  p.  78.          f  EP-  Ab^lardi,  p.  80. 


130  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

the  abbe  threatened  to  send  him  to  the  King,  who 
would  demand  a  signal  reparation  for  an  offence  so 
monstrous,  and  ordered  that,  in  the  mean  time,  he 
should  be  strictly  watched.  Abelard  fled  by  night, 
and  gained  the  territory  of  Thibauld,  the  Count  of 
Champagne.  He  wrote  back  to  the  abbe  of  St. 
Denis,  and  to  his  congregation,  making  concessions, 
but  they  were  of  no  use.  The  Count  interfered  in 
vain  to  effect  a  reconciliation.  The  fugitive,  who  was 
enjoying  great  hospitality  at  Provence,  in  the  priory 
of  St.  Agoul,  was  threatened  with  excommunica- 
tion. 

The  aspect  of  affairs  was  fortunately  changed  by 
the  death  of  the  abbe  of  St.  Denis.  His  successor 
was  more  of  a  politician  than  an  ecclesiastic,  and 
things  took  a  favorable  turn.  Abelard  asked  permis- 
sion to  separate  himself  from  the  abbey.  The  new 
abbe  consented  that  he  might  live  in  any  retreat  that 
he  chose,  but  demanded  that  he  should  join  no  other 
community.  The  condition  was  accepted,  and  every 
thing  was  ratified  in  the  presence  of  the  King  and  his 
council. 

Abelard  retired  to  a  wilderness  place,  on  the 
banks  of  the  Ardusson,  in  the  territory  of  Troyes.* 
He  was  accompanied  by  a  single  clerk.  With  the 
permission  of  the  bishop  of  Troyes,  he  constructed 

*  Ep.  Ab.  p.  88. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  131 

an  oratory  out  of  the  branches  of  trees,  which  he  ded- 
icated to  the  Trinity.  His  retreat  was  soon  known, 
and  a  new  generation  of  scholars  flocked  to  hear  the 
renowned  master.  He  expressed  his  desire  to  remain 
alone,  but  they  importuned  him  for  lessons,  which  at 
length  he  consented  to  give.  Eager  students  con- 
structed in  the  forest  huts  like  the  cell  of  their  mas- 
ter. At  the  end  of  the  first  year  he  was  surrounded 
in  the  wilderness  with  six  hundred  disciples.  No  fee 
was  demanded  for  his  lectures,  but  the  necessities  of 
life  were  supplied  by  those  to  whom  he  freely  gave 
the  treasures  of  his  mind. 

The  number  of  his  students  increased,  and  it  be- 
came necessary  to  enlarge  their  place  of  worship.  A 
respectable  building  was  erected,  which  was  solemnly 
dedicated  to  the  Comforter,  to  the  Paraclete.  Such 
a  dedication  was  an  innovation  that  could  not  be  tol- 
erated in  one  already  suspected.  New  enemies  arose, 
more  formidable  than  the  old,  who  were  representa- 
tives of  the  principle  of  authority,  and  instinctively 
hated  the  representative  of  the  principle  of  reason. 

Chief  among  these  enemies  were  St.  Norbert  and 
St.  Bernard. 

Norbert,*  who  sprang  from  a  distinguished  family, 
who  had  spent  his  youth  in  pleasures,  became  a  priest 
in  1116  He  was  an  ardent  missionary  of  faith  and 

*  Vie  d'Abelard,  p.  115. 


132  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

penitence.  In  1120,  he  laid  the  foundation  of  a  reg- 
ular order  of  monks,  and  at  the  end  of  four  years 
found  himself  at  the  head  of  nine  flourishing  abbeys. 
In  1126,  he  became  archbishop  of  Magdebourg. 
"  Powerful  and  revered  in  the  church,"  says  M.  De 
Remusat,  "protected  by  great  princes,  he  joined  to 
an  indefatigable  activity  a  singular  faith  in  his  own 
inspiration,  in  a  sort  of  personal  revelation,  which  led 
him  to  undertake  prophecies  and  miracles.  Persuad- 
ed of  the  speedy  coming  of  Antichrist,  he  pursued 
with  redoubtable  zeal  every  one  who  seemed  to  him 
to  menace  faith  and  unity."  Abelard  numbers  Nor- 
bert  among  his  persecutors,  and  such  was  the  mystic 
character  of  the  zealot's  mind,  that  he  must  have  been 
incapable  of  excusing  and  appreciating  the  wholly  in- 
tellectual Christianity  of  the  great  theological  dialec- 
tician. 

Abelard's  greatest  antagonist  was  St.  Bernard. 
"  Like  Abelard,  he  was  of  noble  birth.  Originally 
from  Upper  Burgundy,  from  the  country  of  Bossuet 
and  Buffon,  he  had  been  brought  up  in  that  powerful 
abbey  of  Citeaux,  the  sister  and  rival  of  Cluny,  which 
sent  forth  such  a  host  of  illustrious  preachers,  and 
which,  fifty  years  later,  originated  the  crusade  against 
the  Albigeois.  But  Citeaux  was  too  splendid  and  too 
wealthy  for  St.  Bernard ;  and  he  descended  into  the 
poorer  region  of  Champagne,*  and  founded  the  mo- 

*  Not  very  far  from  the  Paraclete. 


ABELARD  AND  HELO1SE.  133 

nastery  of  Clairvaux  in  the  Valley  of  Wormwood. 
Here  he  could  lead  at  will  the  life  of  suffering  to 
which  he  cleaved,  and  from  which  nothing  could  tear 
him,  for  he  would  never  hear  of  being  any  other  than 
a  monk,  when  he  might  have  been  archbishop  or  pope. 
Forced  to  reply  to  the  various  monarchs  who  consult- 
ed him,  he  found  himself  all-powerful  in  his  own  de- 
spite, and  condemned  to  govern  Europe.  It  was  a 
letter  of  St.  Bernard's,  which  caused  the  King  of 
France  to  withdraw  his  army  from  Champagne ;  and 
when  the  simultaneous  elevation  of  Innocent  II.  and 
of  Anaclete  to  the  Papal  throne,  had  given  rise  to  a 
schism,  the  French  church  referred  the  decision  to 
St.  Bernard,  and  he  decided  in  favor  of  Innocent. 
England  and  Italy  opposed  his  choice  :  the  abbot  of 
Clairvaux  wrote  to  the  King  of  England ;  then,  taking 
the  pope  by  the  hand,  led  him  through  all  the  cities 
of  Italy,  which  received  him  on  bended  knee.  The 
people  rushed  to  touch  the  saint,  and  would  struggle 
with  each  other  but  for  a  thread  drawn  out  of  his 
gown.  His  whole  road  was  marked  by  miracles. 

"  But,  as  we  learn  from  his  letters,  these  things 
were  not  his  chief  business.  He  lent,  but  did  not 
give  himself  to  the  world — his  heart  and  treasure 
were  elsewhere.  He  would  write  ten  lines  to  the 
King  of  England,  and  ten  pages  to  a  poor  monk. 
Abstracting  himself  from  all  outward  concerns — a 
man  of  prayer  and  sacrifice,  no  one  knew  better  how 


134  LIVES    AND    LETTKKS    OF 

to  be  alone,  though  surrounded  by  others ;  his  senses 
took  no  note  of  external  objects.  Having,  his  biog- 
rapher tells  us,  walked  the  whole  day  along  the  lake 
of  Lausanne,  he  inquired  in  the  evening  whereabouts 
,  the  lake  might  be.  He  would  mistake  oil  for  water, 
and  coagulated  blood  for  butter.  Almost  every  thing 
he  took  his  stomach  rejected.  He  quenched  his  hun- 
ger with  the  Bible,  his  thirst  with  the  Gospel.  He 
could  scarcely  stand  upright ;  yet  found  strength  to 
preach  the  crusade  to  a  hundred  thousand  men.  He 
seemed  rather  a  being  of  another  world  than  mortal, 
when  he  presented  himself  to  the  multitude  with 
his  white  and  red  beard,  his  white  and  fair  hair, 
meagre  and  weak,  hardly  a  tinge  of  life  on  his 
cheeks,  and  with  that  singular  transparency  of  com- 
plexion so  admired  in  Byron.  So  overpowering 
was  the  effect  of  his  preaching,  that  mothers  kept 
their  sons  from  hearing  him,  wives  their  husbands ; 
or  all  would  have  turned  monks.  As  for  him, 
when  he  had  breathed  the  breath  of  life  into  the  mul- 
titude, he  would  hasten  back  to  Clairvaux,  rebuild 
his  hut  of  boughs  and  leaves,  and  soothe  in  studies 
of  the  Song  of  Songs,  the  interpretation  of  which  was 
the  occupation  of  his  life,  his  love-sick  soul. 

"  Think  with  what  grief  such  a  man  must  have 
learned  the  success  of  Abelard,  and  the  encroach- 
ments of  logic  on  religion,  the  prosaic  victory  of  rea- 
eon  over  faith,  and  the  extinguishment  of  the  flame 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  135 

of  sacrifice  in  the  world — it  was  tearing  his  God  from 
him."* 

These  two  men  preached  against  Abelard,  throw- 
ing doubts  upon  his  faith  and  suspicions  upon  his 
life.f  The  abbe  of  Clairvaux  was  not,  it  is  probable, 
at  this  period,  acquainted  with  the  enemy  of  faith,  and 
champion  of  reason,  but  had  heard  of  his  adventures, 
and  knew  of  his  logical  duels  with  schoolmen  and 
ecclesiastics.  It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  the 
Valley  of  Wormwood  and  the  Paraclete  were  not  far 
distant  from  each  other,  so  that  the  two  abbeys  may 
be  regarded  as  having  been  rivals.  It  is  certain  that 
the  philosopher  wasan  fear  of  the  saint.  During  the 
last  days  of  his  stay  at  the  place  of  his  retreat,  he 
constantly  expected  to  be  dragged  before  a  council  as 
a  heretic.  Such  was  the  state  of  his  mind,  caused  by 
apprehension,  that  he  even  thought  of  seeking  refuge 
on  infidel  ground,  among  the  enemies  of  Christ.  \ 

About  the  year  1125,  the  abbey  of  Saint  Gildas 
lost  its  head,  and,  after  the  consent  of  the  abbe  and 
monks  of  Saint  Denis  had  been  obtained,  the  vacant 
post  was  offered  to  Abelard.  He  accepted  the  offer, 
comparing  himself,  in  escaping  from  the  enmity  of 
France,  to  St.  Jerome,  fleeing  from  the  injustice  of 
Rome. 

*  Michelet.  f  Ep.  Ab.  p.  96. 

\  Ep.  Ab.  p.  102. — Inter  inimicos  Christi  Christian^ 
vivere. 


136  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Saint  Gildas*  was  in  Brittany,  situated  on  the 
summit  of  a  promontory,  overlooking  the  ocean,  whose 
waves  broke  mournfully  on  the  rocks  beneath.  The 
eloquent  professor,  the  learned  philosopher,  the  ac- 
complished lover,  who  was  withal  a  poet  and  a  charm- 
ing singer,  went  among  an  irregular,  disorderly,  vio- 
lent, ferocious  tribe  of  monks  and  savages,  who  could 
understand  nothing,  who  knew  not  how  to  obey.  Ab- 
elard  became  the  subject  of  a  tyrannical  king,  and  the 
head  of  an  abbey  that  had  allowed  itself  to  be  de- 
spoiled to  purchase  venality  for  its  misconduct.  Sur- 
rounded by  barbarians,  he  was  powerless.  No  wonder 
that  he  became  melancholy,  and  poured  out  his  sad- 
ness in  songs  as  plaintive  as  the  wild  winds  that 
howled  around  his  habitation.! 

*  Vie  D'Abelard,  p.  120. 

f  Six  of  these  elegiac  songs,  Odce  febiles,  in  which  the 
author  breathes  out  his  own  sorrows  under  the  transparent 
veil  of  biblical  fictions,  have  been  found  in  the  library  of  the 
Vatican  at  Rome. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  137 


XXIII. 

HELOISE  AGAIN.— THE   MONODRAMA  CONTINUED 

"Ah,  think  at  least  thy  flock  deserves  thy  care, 
Plants  of  thy  hand,  and  children  of  thy  prayer. 
From  the  false  world  in  early  youth  they  fled, 
By  thee  to  mountains,  wilds,  and  deserts  led. 
You  raised  these  hallowed  walls ;  the  desert  smiled, 
And  Paradise  was  opened  in  the  Wild. 
No  weeping  orphan  saw  his  father's  stores 
Our  shrines  irradiate,  or  emblaze  the  floors ; 
No  silver  saints,  by  dying  misers  giv'n, 
Here  bribed  the  rage  of  ill-requited  heav'n ; 
But  such  plain  roofs  as  Piety  could  raise, 
And  only  vocal  with  the  Maker's  praise." 

POPE'S  " Eloisa  to  Abelard" 

IN  the  mean  time,  Heloise,  it  would  seem,  had  been 
almost  forgotten  by  her  wandering  spouse.  We  have 
found  no  mention  of  her  name,  in  tracing  his  life  thus 
far,  since  he  entered  the  abbey  of  St.  Denis.  Her 
memory,  however,  may  have  been  buried  in  his  heart 
during  these  years  of  persecution  and  sorrow,  and 
cherished  there  in  faithfulness  and  silence. 

At  the  convent  of  Argenteuil,  the  character  and 
energy   of  Heloise  soon  placed  her  in  the  highest 


138  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

rank.  She  was  made  prioress,  and  the  church  spoke 
of  her  with  respect.  But  she  was  not  destined  to 
remain  there  a  long  time  in  quiet  possession  of  her 
authority,  and  in  the  enjoyment  of  her  honors. 

It  was  found,  by  an  examination  of  the  ancient 
charters,  that  the  monks  of  St.  Denis  could  lay  claim 
to  Argenteuil.  The  history  of  these  charters  it  is 
not  necessary  to  trace.  The  legal  right  was  with  the 
monks,  and,  in  order  to  make  sure  the  claim,  the 
abbe  of  St.  Dennis  accused  the  nuns  of  Argenteuil  of 
grave  irregularities.  At  his  instance,  a  bull  was 
obtained,  in  1127,  by  which  the  nuns  were  dispos- 
sessed. The  next  year  they  were  violently  ejected. 
Some  of  the  sisterhood  entered  the  abbey  of  Notre- 
Dame-des-Bois,  on  the  banks  of  the  Marne ;  others, 
among  whom  was  Heloise,  sought,  here  and  there,  an 
asylum.* 

News  of  this  reached  Abelard  at  St.  Gildas. 
Already,  in  the  midst  of  his  sorrows,  had  he  felt 
remorse  for  leaving  the  Paraclete, — for  abandoning  his 
followers, — for  deserting  his  last  friends.  Imme- 
diately on  receiving  information  that  the  prioress  of 
Argenteuil  was  wandering  in  search  of  a  religious 
home,  he  returned  to  the  country  of  Champagne,  and 
invited  her  to  occupy  his  abandoned  oratory.  The 
invitation  was  accepted,  and  to  Heloise  and  her  com- 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  12G. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  139 

pardons  he  made  a  perpetual  and  irrevocable  cession 
of  all  the  property  belonging  to  the  deserted  Paraclete. 
This  donation  was  approved  by  the  bishop  of  Troyes, 
in  whose  diocese  the  abbey  was  located ;  less  than 
two  years  afterwards,  was  approved  by  the  pope, 
and  declared  inviolable  under  penalty  of  excommuni- 
cation. 

This  approval  was  given  by  the  new  pope,  Inno- 
cent II.,  the  successful  rival  of  Anaclete.  When  the 
two  were  elected  to  fill  the  papal  chair,  Innocent,  not 
finding  sufficient  support  in  Italy,  found  it  necessary 
to  seek  an  asylum  in  France.  He  disembarked  with 
his  cardinals  at  the  port  of  St.  G-ildas,  and  was  sup- 
ported by  Abelard,  as  well  as  by  St.  Bernard.  When 
he  was  firmly  seated  on  the  papal  throne,  he  did  not 
forget  one  of  the  most  distinguished  abbes  of  France, 
who  had  been  his  friend  in  the  hour  of  need,  and 
granted  every  thing  that  was  requested,  in  regard  to 
transferring  the  abbey  of  Paraclete  to  Heloise  and  her 
followers. 

Heloise  was  twenty-nine  years  of  age  when  she 
took  possession  of  that  celebrated  institution.  Her 
title,  at  first,  was  that  of  prioress,  but  a  bull,  bearing 
the  date  of  1136,  designated  her  as  abbess. 

At  first,  the  abbess  and  her  sisters  had  to  endure 
many  privations,  but  their  resources  were  soon  aug- 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  128. 


140  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

merited,  through  the  respect  and  affection  of  the 
neighboring  people.*  "  God  knows,"  says  Abelard, 
"  they  have  been  more  enriched,  I  think,  in  a  single 
year,  than  I  should  have  been  in  a  hundred  years,  if 
I  had  continued  to  dwell  at  Paraclete  ;  for  if  their  sex 
is  weaker,  the  poverty  of  females  is  more  touching, 
and  more  easily  moves  the  heart ;  and  their  virtue  is 
more  pleasing  to  God  and  men.  And,  then,  the  Lord 
awarded  to  the  eyes  of  all  so  visible  a  grace  in  this 
woman,  my  sister,  who  was  at  their  head,  that  the 
bishops  loved  her  as  their  daughter,  the  abbes  as 
their  sister,  the  laymen  as  a  mother ;  and  all  equally 
admired  her  piety,  her  prudence,  and  in  all  things  an 
incomparable  sweetness  of  patience."  f 

Abelard  returned  to  the  government  of  his  savage 
subjects  at  St.  Gildas ;  but,  now  and  then,  visited  the 
nuns  at  Paraclete,  giving  them  his  counsel  and  sup- 
port, preaching  to  them,  and  affording  them  at  times 
temporal  as  well  as  spiritual  aid.  He  saw  Heloise 
but  rarely,  and  spoke  with  her  but  little.  Continu- 

*  "Abelard,"  says  M.  Michelet,  "had  nothing  but  his 
genius.  Born  noble,  rich,  eldest  of  his  family,  he  left  every 
thing  to  his  brothers.  Nevertheless  he  did  not  wish  to  re- 
ceive any  thing  from  lords  and  kings  for  the  purpose  of 
building  the  house  of  Heloise.  His  disciples  ran  to  his  aid. 
Simple  priests,  indigent  scholars,  mendicants  of  science,  they 
found  treasures  for  their  master.  'Soon/  said  tin-  spouse  of 
Abelard,  'we  knew  not  what  to  do  with  the  offering-.'  — 
Memoire  sur  V Education  des  Femmes  au  Moyen  Age. 

f  Ab.  Op.,  ep.  i.,  p.  34. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  141 

ally  watched  and  suspected,  by  some  he  was  blamed 
for  neglecting  the  new  sisterhood,  and  by  others  for 
visiting  them  at  all. 

In  addition  to  the  "  heart-ache,"  caused  by  un- 
grounded suspicions,  fresh  troubles  arose  for  him  at 
the  abbey.  Misfortunes  "  come  not  single  spies  but 
in  fierce  battalions."  His  life  was  in  danger.  He 
feared  to  travel,  for  he  believed  that  assassins  were 
lying  in  wait  for  him.  He  celebrated  mass  with  pre- 
caution, apprehensive  of  poison  in  the  communion 
cup.  He  went  to  Nantes,  to  visit  the  count,  who  was 
sick,  and  lodged  at  the  house  of  one  of  the  brothers, 
that  dwelt  in  that  city.  A  monk,  who  accompanied 
him,  ate  of  food  that  he  did  not  dare  to  touch  him- 
self, and  was  poisoned.  He  even  left  the  abbey  with 
a  few  faithful  brothers,  and  lived  in  isolation. 

In  the  mean  time,  a  severe  fall  from  a  horse  se- 
riously impaired  his  already  declining  health.  Ex- 
communication was  at  length  resorted  to,  and  some 
of  the  refractory  monks  were  expelled  from  the 
abbey,  but  order  was  not  restored.  Fearing  assassi- 
nation, he  gained  the  sea  by  a  subterranean  passage, 
and  escaped,  it  is  said,  under  the  conduct  of  one  of 
the  lords  of  the  country.  From  the  asylum  which  he 
reached,  he  wrote,  for  the  consolation  of  an  unfortu- 
nate friend,  that  celebrated  letter,  which  is  entitled, 
Historia  Calamitatum, — history  of  his  misfortunes. 

The  Historia  Calamitatum  is  a  romantic  auto- 


142  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

biography,  in  which  the  author  not  only  narrates  tl.«: 
principal  events  of  his  external  life,  but  also  recounts 
the  adventures  of  his  mind  and  the  emotions  of  his 
heart.  It  marks  an  epoch  in  the  life  of  Abelard. 
With  it  ends  that  fulness  of  biographic  detail  which 
thus  far  has  not  been  wanting.  The  history  of  his 
calamities  fell,  by  chance,  into  the  hands  of  Heloise, 
and  called  forth  the  first  of  those  celebrated  letters, 
that  have  been  eagerly  read  by  so  many  generations ; 
that  have  not  lost  their  freshness  and  charm  during 
the  tumultuous  changes  of  nearly  eight  hundred  years. 
These  letters,  so  rich  in  romantic  interest,  will 
form,  in  their  chronologic  order,  several  of  the  subse- 
quent chapters. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  143 


XXIV. 

LETTER  OF  HELOISE  TO  ABELARD. 


"Soon  as  thy  letters  trembling  I  unclose, 
That  well-known  name  awakens  all  my  woes ; 
Oh,  name  for  ever  sad !  for  ever  dear ! 
Still  breath'd  in  sighs,  still  ushered  with  a  tear. 
I  tremble  too,  where'er  my  own  I  find, 
Some  dire  misfortune  follows  close  behind. 
Line  after  line  my  gushing  eyes  o'erflow, 
Led  through  a  sad  variety  of  woe : 
Now  warm  with  love,  now  withering  with  my  bloom, 
Lost  in  a  convent's  solitary  gloom  I 
There  stern  religion  quench'd  th'  unwilling  flame, 
There  died  the  best  of  passions,  Love  and  Fame. 

"  Yet  write,  oh  write  me  all,  that  I  may  join 
Grief  to  thy  griefs,  and  echo  sighs  to  thine. 
Nor  foes  nor  fortune  take  this  power  away  ; 
And  is  my  Abelard  less  kind  than  they  ? 
Tears  still  are  mine,  and  those  I  need  not  spare, 
Lovo  but  demands  what  else  were  shed  in  pray'r ; 
No  happier  task  these  faded  eyes  pursue ; 
To  read  and  weep  is  all  they  now  can  do. 

"Then  share  thy  pain,  allow  that  sad  relief; 
Ah,  more  than  share  it,  give  me  all  thy  grief. 
Heaven  first  taught  letters  for  some  wretch's  aid, 
Some  banish'd  lover,  or  some  captive  maid ; 


144  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    0* 

They  live,  they  speak,  they  breathe  what  love  inspires, 
Warm  from  the  soul,  and  faithful  to  its  fires, 
The  virgin's  wish  without  her  fears  impart, 
Excuse  the  blush,  and  pour  out  all  the  heart, 
Speed  the  soft  intercourse  from  soul  to  soul, 
And  waft  a  sigh  from  Indus  to  the  pole.11 

POPE'S  " EJoisa  to  Abelard" 

To  her  lord, — yes,  to  her  father  ;  to  her  husband, — yes,  to  her 
brother  ;  his  servant, — yes,  his  daughter  ;  his  wife, — yes, 
his  sister. 

HELOISE    TO    ABELARD. 

THE  letter,  dearest,  which  you  recently  sent  to  a 
friend  of  yours,  for  the  purpose  of  consoling  him,  has 
by  chance  fallen  into  my  hands.  From  a  glance  at 
the  superscription  I  recognized  it  as  yours,  and  began 
to  read  it  with  so  much  the  more  avidity  as  the  more 
ardently  I  cherish  the  writer  himself.  I  wished  at 
least  to  reproduce  from  his  words  the  image  of  the 
one  that  I  have  lost.  Full  of  gall  and  wormwood,  I 
remember,  was  that  letter  which  related  the  lamenta- 
ble history  of  our  conversion,  and  of  your  continual 
afflictions. 

You  amply  fulfilled  the  promise  made  to  that 
friend  at  the  commencement  of  your  letter,  that,  in 
comparison  with  yours,  he  should  regard  his  misfor- 
tunes as  nothing,  or  as  of  little  account.  Having 
exposed  the  persecutions  directed  against  you  by 
your  masters,  and  the  treachery  to  which  you  were  a 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  145 

victim  (in  corpus  tuum  summcz  proditionis  injuria), 
you  proceeded  to  a  recital  of  the  execrable  envy  and 
the  excessive  hatred  of  your  disciples,  Albericus  of 
Rheims,  and  Lotulphus  of  Lombardy. 

You  did  not  forget  to  mention  that,  by  their  sug- 
gestions, your  glorious  work  on  theology  was  com- 
mitted to  the  flames ;  that  you  yourself  were  con- 
demned, as  it  were,  to  a  prison.  Then  follows  an 
account  of  the  machinations  of  your  abbe,  and  of  your 
false  brethren ;  an  account  of  the  calumnies,  from 
which  you  had  most  to  suffer,  of  those  pseudo-apos- 
tles, moved  against  you  by  envy  ;  and  an  account  of 
the  scandal  every  where  raised  by  the  name  Paraclete 
given,  contrary  to  custom,  to  your  oratory  :  finally, 
an  account  of  those  insufferable  and  hitherto  unre- 
mitted  persecutions  of  your  life,  by  that  most  cruel 
tyrant,  and  those  execrable  monks,  whom  you  call 
your  children,  closes  this  sad  history. 

No  one,  I  think,  could  either  read  or  listen  to 
these  things  without  tears.  How  must  it  be,  then, 
with  me  !  The  very  fidelity  of  your  narrative  has  the 
more  fully  renewed  my  sorrows.  These  sorrows  have 
been  deepened,  too,  on  account  of  your  perils,  which 
you  represent  as  continually  increasing.  We  are  all 
compelled  to  despair  of  your  life,  and  daily  our  trem- 
bling hearts  and  agitated  bosoms  expect,  as  the  last 
news,  the  report  of  your  death. 

In  the  name  of  Christ,  who  hitherto  has  protected 
7 


146  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

you  for  his  service,  whose  humble  servants  we  are, 
and  thine,  we  beseech  you  to  write  us  frequently,  in- 
forming us  by  what  perils  you  are  surrounded ;  since 
we  alone  remain  to  you,  to  participate  in  your  grief 
or  in  your  joy.  Those  who  condole  with  us  usually 
afford  some  consolation  to  our  sorrowing  hearts,  and  a 
burden  laid  upon  several  is  more  easily  borne,  or 
seems  more  light.  If  the  tempest  should  subside  a 
little,  then  hasten  your  letters,  for  they  will  be  mes- 
sengers of  joy.  Whatever  may  be  the  subject  of 
your  letters,  they  will  afford  us  not  a  little  comfort ; 
they  will  at  least  prove  that  you  are  mindful  of  us. 

How  pleasant  the  letters  of  absent  friends  are, 
Seneca  himself  teaches  us,  by  an  appropriate  example, 
writing  thus  in  a  certain  place  to  his  friend  Lucilius  : 
"  I  thank  you  for  writing  to  me  often ;  for  you  show 
yourself  to  me  in  the  only  way  you  are  able.  As 
soon  as  I  receive  your  letter  we  are  together."  If 
the  pictures  of  absent  friends  are  pleasant  to  us, 
which  renew  their  remembrance,  which  lighten  the 
pain  of  absence  with  a  vain  phantom  of  consolation, 
how  much  more  pleasant  are  the  letters  which  bring 
to  us  the  true  signs  of  an  absent  friend ! 

Thanks  to  God,  no  envy  can  prohibit,  no  difficulty 
can  prevent  you  from  giving  us  your  presence  in  this 
manner ;  let  no  delay,  I  beseech  you,  come  from  your 
negligence. 

You  have  written  to  a  friend  a  long  letter  of  con- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  147 

solation.  in  view  of  his  misfortunes,  it  is  true,  but 
really  touching  your  own.  In  narrating  these  with 
diligence,  for  the  purpose  of  consoling  him,  you  have 
greatly  added  to  our  desolation,  and  while  you  desired 
to  heal  his  wounds,  you  have  inflicted  new  wounds  of 
grief  upon  us,  and  have  deepened  those  already  ex- 
isting. Cure,  I  pray  you — you  who  are  anxious  to 
cure  the  wounds  which  others  have  made — cure  those 
which  you  have  made  yourself.  You  have  calmed 
the  pains  of  a  friend,  and  a  companion,  and  have  thus 
paid  the  debt  due  to  friendship  and  intimacy ;  but  to 
us,  who  should  be  called  worshippers,  rather  than 
friends,  daughters  rather  than  companions,  or  by  any 
other  name,  if  there  be  one  still  more  sweet  and  holy, 
— to  us,  you  are  bound  by  a  more  sacred  obligation. 

As  to  the  importance  of  the  debt  which  obligates 
you  to  us,  it  is  not  necessary  to  rest  upon  arguments 
and  testimonies,  as  though  a  doubtful  thing  were  to 
be  proved,  and  if  all  were  silent,  the  facts  speak  for 
themselves.  You,  after  God,  are  the  sole  founder  of 
this  place,  the  sole  constructor  of  this  oratory,  the  sole 
builder  of  this  congregation ;  you  have  built  nothing 
here  upon  a  foreign  foundation.  All  that  is  here  is 
your  creation.  This  solitude,  frequented  only  by 
wild  beasts  and  robbers,  had  known  no  habitation  of 
men,  had  never  possessed  a  single  dwelling.  Among 
the  dens  of  wild  beasts,  among  the  retreats  of  robbers, 
where  the  name  of  God  was  never  called  upon,  you 


148  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

erected  a  divine  tabernacle,  and  dedicated  a  temple  to 
the  Holy  Spirit.  Nothing  for  this  work  did  you  re- 
ceive from  the  riches  of  kings  or  princes,  although 
you  might  have  demanded  and  obtained  every  thing; 
in  order  that  whatever  was  done  might  be  attributed 
to  yourself  alone.  Clerks  or  scholars,  coming  in  a 
crowd  to  listen  to  your  instruction,  furnished  you  with 
all  necessary  things  ;  and  those  who  were  living  on 
ecclesiastical  benefices,  who  had  been  accustomed  to 
receive  rather  than  to  present  offerings,  and  who, 
previously,  had  possessed  hands  for  taking  and  not  for 
giving,  here  became  importunate  and  prodigal  in  pre- 
senting offerings. 

Yours,  therefore,  truly  yours,  is  this  new  planta- 
tion in  the  field  of  the  Lord,  and  frequent  watering  is 
still  necessary  for  its  young  plants,  in  order  that  they 
may  nourish.  Feeble  enough,  from  the  very  nature 
of  the  female  sex,  is  this  plantation ;  it  is  infirm, 
though  it  were  not  new.  Therefore  it  demands  more 
diligent  and  assiduous  culture  ;  according  to  the  word 
of  the  Apostle  :  "  I  have  planted,  Apollos  watered ; 
but  God  gave  the  increase."  The  Apostle  had  plant- 
ed and  founded  in  faith,  through  the  doctrine  of  his 
preaching,  the  Corinthians,  to  whom  he  was  writing. 
Apollos,  a  disciple  of  the  Apostle  himself,  had  watered 
them  by  his  holy  exhortations,  and  thus  the  divine 
grace  bestowed  upon  them  an  increase  of  virtues. 
Uselessly  do  you  cultivate  by  your  admonitions  and 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  149 

sacred  exhortations  a  foreign  vine,  which  you  have 
not  planted,  and  which  is  changed  for  you  into  bitter- 
ness. Remember  what  you  owe  to  your  own — you, 
who  are  so  careful  of  another's.  You  teach  and  ad- 
monish rebels,  but  meet  with  no  success.  In  vain 
you  scatter  before  swine  the  pearls  of  divine  elo- 
quence. Consider  what  you  owe  to  the  obedient — 
you  who  are  exhausting  yourself  for  the  disobedient. 
Remember  what  you  owe  to  your  daughters — you  who 
are  wasting  so  much  upon  enemies.  And,  omitting 
others,  think  how  much  you  are  indebted  to  me ;  that 
the  common  debt  which  you  owe  to  all  the  women 
who  have  devoted  themselves  to  God,  you  may  pay  to 
her  who  has  devoted  herself  wholly  to  you. 

How  many  and  how  important  treatises,  and  with 
what  diligence,  the  holy  Fathers  have  composed,  to 
teach,  exhort,  or  even  to  console  religious  women, 
you,  with  your  abundant  knowledge,  know  better  than 
I  with  my  little  store  of  learning.  Therefore,  with 
no  ordinary  astonishment  have  I  remarked  your  long 
oblivion  in  regard  to  the  tender  commencements  of 
our  conversion,  because,  moved  neither  by  reverence 
for  God,  nor  love  for  us,  nor  by  the  example  of  the 
holy  Fathers,  you  did  not  try  to  console  me,  while 
fluctuating  in  my  faith,  and  worn  down  with  unabating 
grief,  either  by  coming  to  rejoice  my  ear  with  the 
sound  of  your  voice,  or  by  sending  a  letter  to  comfort 
my  heart. 


150  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

You  knew  that  your  obligations  to  me  were  the 
stronger  for  our  having  been  united  in  the  sacrament 
of  marriage ;  and  tie  immoderate  love  which,  as  every 
one  knows,  I  have  always  borne  for  you,  has  increased 
your  indebtedness  to  me. 

You  know,  dearest,  all  know,  how  much  I  lost  in 
losing  you.  An  infamous  and  hitherto  unheard  of 
crime,  in  depriving  you  of  my  love,  tore  me  from  my- 
self. Incomparably  greater  is  the  grief  caused  by 
the  manner  of  the  loss,  than  that  caused  by  the  loss 
itself.  The  greater  the  cause  of  grieving  is,  so  much 
the  greater  remedies  for  the  purpose  of  consolation 
must  be  applied.  I  expect  consolation  from  no  other, 
for  you,  who  alone  have  caused  me  to  grieve,  can  alone 
console  me.  You  alone  are  able  to  sadden  me,  to 
make  me  joyous,  or  to  comfort  me.  And  you  alone 
are  under  obligations  to  comfort  me,  for  so  far  did  I 
comply  with  your  wishes,  that,  in  order  not  to  offend 
you  in  any  thing,  I  had  the  courage  to  destroy  myself 
in  obedience  to  your  command.  I  went  even  farther, 
and,  strange  to  say,  my  love  for  you  rose  to  such  a 
height  of  delirium  that  it  sacrificed,  without  hope  of 
regaining  it,  the  sole  object  of  its  desire.  At  your 
command  I  changed  my  habit  as  well  as  my  inclina- 
tion, in  order  to  show  you  that  you  were  the  only 
master  of  my  heart. 

God  knows  I  never  sought  any  thing  in  you  except 
yourself;  you,  you  alone,  not  your  possessions  did  I 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  151 

desire.  Neither  the  rights  of  matrimony,  nor  any 
dowry  have  I  expected;  neither  my  own  pleasures 
nor  my  own  wishes,  but  yours,  as  you  yourself  know, 
have  I  studied  to  fulfil. 

Although  the  name  of  wife  seems  more  holy  and 
more  valid,  another  has  always  been  sweeter  to  me, 
that  of  friend ;  or,  if  you  will  not  be  shocked,  that 
of  concubine  or  mistress.  The  more  I  humbled  my- 
self before  you,  the  more,  as  I  thought,  should  I  ele- 
vate myself  in  your  favor,  and  thus  injure  the  less  the 
glory  of  your  excellence. 

I  thank  you  for  not  having  wholly  forgotten  my 
sentiments,  in  this  regard,  in  the  letter  addressed  to 
your  friend  for  his  consolation.  You  did  not  disdain 
to  mention  some  of  the  reasons  by  which  I  endea- 
vored to  dissuade  you  from  our  marriage,  from  inau- 
spicious nuptials :  but  you  passed  over  in  silence  most 
of  the  reasons  which  caused  me  to  prefer  love  to  mar- 
riage, liberty  to  chains.  I  call  G-od  to  witness  that 
if  Augustus,  supreme  master  of  the  world,  had  offered 
me  the  royal  honor  of  his  alliance,  I  should  have  ac- 
cepted with  more  joy  and  pride  the  name  of  your  mis- 
tress than  that  of  his  empress.  Neither  riches  nor 
power  constitute  the  superiority  of  a  man  :  riches  and 
power  are  the  gift  of  fortune,  while  merit  alone  estab- 
lishes the  claim  to  superiority. 

The  woman  who  more  willingly  marries  a  rich 
than  a  poor  man,  and  who  seeks  in  a  husband  posses- 


152  LIVES    AND    LETTERS   OP 

sions  rather  than  himself,  surely  has  a  venal  soul, 
Surely  to  her  who  is  induced  to  marry  from  such  con- 
siderations, a  reward  rather  than  love  is  owed.  Cer- 
tain it  is  that  she  is  in  pursuit  of  fortune,  and  not  in 
pursuit  of  a  husband,  and  that,  had  it  been  possible, 
she  would  have  prostituted  herself  to  a  richer.  We 
find  the  clearest  proof  of  this  truth  in  the  words  of 
Aspasia,  as  reported  by  ^Eschines,  the  disciple  of  Soc 
rates.  This  feminine  philosopher,  wishing  to  recon- 
cile Xenophon  and  his  wife,  ends  her  exhortations  by 
the  reasoning  which  follows :  "  As  soon  as  you  have 
realized  that  there  exists  not  upon  earth  a  better  man 
or  a  more  amiable  woman,  you  will  know  how  to  re- 
cognize and  enjoy  the  good  fortune  which  has  hap- 
pened to  you  in  common,  that  the  husband  has  the 
best  of  women,  and  the  wife  the  best  of  men." 

This  sentiment,  which  seems  to  be  almost  the  re- 
sult of  inspiration,  must  be  the  utterance  of  wisdom 
herself  rather  than  of  philosophy.  It  is  a  divine 
error,  and  a  happy  fallacy  in  the  married,  when  per- 
fect satisfaction  and  sympathy  protects  against  any 
violation  the  ties  of  matrimony,  not  so  much  by  the 
continence  of  their  bodies  as  by  the  chastity  of  their 
souls. 

But  that  which  error  confers  upon  others,  a  mani- 
fest truth  conferred  upon  me.  But  those  qualities, 
which  none  but  a  wife  can  discover  in  her  husband, 
were  so  conspicuous  in  you,  that  the  whole  world  did 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  153 

not  so  much  believe  as  know  that  they  existed.  My 
love  was  then  so  much  the  more  true,  as  it  was  the 
farther  from  resting  upon  error.  For  who  among 
kings,  who  among  philosophers,  could  equal  you  in 
fame  ?  What  country,  what  city,  what  village  did 
not  ardently  desire  to  see  you  ?  Who,  I  ask,  when 
you  appeared  in  public,  did  not  hasten  to  look  at  you, 
and  follow  you  at  your  departure  with  eager  eyes  ? 

But  you  possessed  two  things,  by  which  you  were 
able  to  entice  the  minds  of  any  females ;  I  mean  a 
charming  voice  in  singing,  and  a  fascinating  manner 
in  conversation.  We  know  that  other  philosophers 
have  excelled  least  of  all  in  these  accomplishments. 
As  though  it  were  a  pastime,  for  the  purpose  of  re- 
creation, after  the  stern  labors  of  philosophy,  you 
composed  a  multitude  of  verses  and  amorous  songs, 
the  poetic  thoughts  and  musical  graces  of  which 
were  every  where  responded  to ;  so  that  the  sweetness 
of  the  melody  did  not  permit  even  the  illiterate  to  be 
unmindful  of  you.  Especially  on  this  account  were 
women  sighing  for  you  in  love.  And  since  the  greater 
part  of  these  verses  chanted  our  loves,  my  name  was 
soon  made  known  in  many  regions,  and  many  females 
were  inflamed  with  jealousy  against  me. 

What  endowment  of  mind  or  body  did  not  adorn 
your  youth?  What  woman,  then  envying  me,  does 
not  my  misfortune  now  compel  to  pity  me,  when  I  am 
deprived  of  so  many  pleasures  ?  What  man,  or  what 


154  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

woman,  although  at  first  my  enemy,  does  not  due  com- 
passion now  soften  toward  me  ? 

And  I  am  indeed  innocent,  as  you  know.  Crime 
is  not  in  the  act,  but  in  the  intention.  Justice  does 
not  regard  the  things  that  are  done,  but  the  intention 
with  which  they  are  done.  What  my  feelings  have 
always  been  toward  you,  you  alone,  who  have  proved 
them,  can  judge.  To  your  examination  I  commit 
all  things,  upon  your  testimony  I  rest  my  cause. 

Tell  me  one  thing,  if  you  are  able,  why,  since  our 
entrance  upon  a  religious  life,  which  you  resolved 
upon  without  consulting  me,  you  have  so  neglected 
me,  so  forgotten  me,  that  you  have  never  come  to  en- 
courage me  with  your  words,  nor  in  your  absence 
have  consoled  me  with  a  letter  :  tell  me,  I  say,  if  you 
are  able,  or  I  will  say  what  I  think,  what  indeed  all 
suspect.  It  was  desire  rather  than  friendship  that 
drew  you  to  me,  passion  rather  than  love.  When, 
therefore,  that  ceased  which  was  the  object  of  your 
desire,  every  thing  else  which  you  exhibited  on  account 
of  it,  equally  vanished. 

This  conjecture,  dearest,  is  not  so  much  mine  as 
that  of  all,  not  so  much  special  as  common,  not  so 
much  private  as  public.  Would  that  it  seemed  so  to 
me  alone,  and  that  your  love  might  find  some  defend- 
ers, by  whom  my  grief  might  be  somewhat  calmed ! 
0  that  I  might  be  able  to  imagine  reasons  for  excu- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  155 

sing  you,  and  persuading  myself  that  to  you  I  am  still 
an  object  of  interest ! 

Attend,  I  pray  you,  to  that  which  I  request,  and 
it  will  seem  small  and  very  easy  for  you.  Since  your 
presence  is  denied  me,  give  me  words  of  which  you 
possess  such  an  abundance,  and  thus  afford  me  at 
least  the  sweetness  of  your  image.  In  vain  shall  I 
expect  to  find  you  bountiful  in  things,  if  I  find  you 
avaricious  in  words.  Hitherto  I  have  believed  that  I 
have  merited  many  things  from  you,  having  com- 
plied with  every  thing  for  your  sake,  and  persevering 
still  in  absolute  submission  to  you.  When  I  was  in 
the  bloom  of  youth,  it  was  not  religious  devotion,  but 
your  command,  that  drew  me  to  the  asperity  of 
monastic  life.  If  for  this  I  have  merited  nothing  in 
your  eyes,  how  vain  has  been  my  labor.  No  reward 
for  this  must  be  expected  by  me  from  God,  out  of 
love  to  whom  it  is  evident  that  I  have  as  yet  done 
nothing. 

When  you  were  hastening  to  God  I  followed  you, 
yes  I  preceded  you.  For,  as  if  mindful  of  the  wife 
of  Lot,  who  looked  behind  her,  in  the  sacred  habit 
and  the  monastic  profession  you  bound  me  to  God  be- 
fore you  bound  yourself.  In  that  one  instance,  I  con- 
fess, I  grieved  and  blushed  for  your  mistrust  of  me. 
But  God  knows  I  should  not  have  hesitated  to  follow 
you,  at  your  command,  if  you  had  been  hastening  to 
perdition.  For  my  heart  was  not  with  me,  but  with 


156  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

you.  But  now,  more  than  ever,  if  it  is  not  with  you 
it  is  nowhere,  since  it  cannot  exist  without  you.  Deal 
with  it  gently,  I  beseech  you.  But  gently  you  will 
have  dealt  with  it,  propitious  it  will  have  found  you, 
if  you  return  favor  for  favor,  little  for  much,  words 
for  things.  Oh  that  your  love  were  less  sure  of  me, 
that  it  might  be  more  solicitous !  The  more  secure  I 
have  made  you,  the  more  have  I  encouraged  your  neg- 
ligence. Remember,  I  beseech  you,  what  I  have 
done  ;  and  recollect  how  much  you  are  indebted  to  me. 

While  I  was  enjoying  the  delights  of  love  witli 
you,  it  was  regarded  by  most  as  uncertain  whether  I 
was  following  the  impulse  of  my  heart  or  the  instinct 
of  pleasure.  But  now  the  end  explains  the  begin- 
ning. I  have  denied  myself  all  joys  that  I  might  be 
obedient  to  your  wish.  I  have  reserved  to  myx  H' 
nothing,  unless  it  be  the  hope  that  thereby  I  might 
become  more  completely  yours.  What  then  must  be 
your  iniquity,  if,  as  my  sacrifices  increase,  your  grati- 
tude decreases ;  if,  when  I  sacrifice  every  thing,  you 
entirely  forget  your  obligations — especially  when  the 
demand  made  is  so  small,  and  for  you  so  easy  to  be 
complied  with. 

Therefore,  by  the  God  to  whom  you  have  conse- 
crated yourself,  I  beseech  you  to  give  me  your  pres- 
ence in  the  manner  which  is  possible  to  you,  that  is, 
by  writing  to  me  some  consolation.  If  for  no  other 
reason,  do  it  for  this  end,  that,  thus  reanimated,  I 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  157 

may  devote  myself  with  more  alacrity  to  the  service 
of  God.  Formerly,  when  you  sought  me  for  earthly 
pleasures,  you  visited  me  with  frequent  letters,  and 
by  your  frequent  songs  you  placed  Heloise  in  the 
mouths  of  all.  Every  place,  every  house,  resounded 
with  my  name.  How  much  more  rightly  might  you 
now  excite  me  toward  G-od,  than  you  did  then  towards 
earthly  pleasures.  Remember,  I  beseech  you,  what 
you  owe  to  me,  consider  what  I  ask ;  and  I  terminate 
this  long  letter  by  a  short  ending : 
Adieu,  my  only  beloved  ! 


158  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XXV. 

LETTER  OF  ABELARD  TO 


To  ffeloise,  his  dearest  sister  in  Christ,  Abelard,  her  brother  in 
the  same. 

INASMUCH  as,  since  our  conversion  from  the 
world  to  God,  I  have  not  written  you,  as  yet,  any 
thing  by  way  of  consolation  or  exhortation,  •  it  must 
not  be  imputed  to  my  negligence,  but  to  your  wisdom, 
in  which  I  always  have  the  greatest  confidence.  For 
I  have  not  believed  that  she  was  in  need  of  such  aids, 
to  whom  Heaven  has  abundantly  distributed  its  best 
gifts  —  who,  by  words  as  well  as  by  example,  is  able 
to  teach  the  erring,  to  sustain  the  weak,  to  encourage 
the  timid. 

You  were,  long  since,  accustomed  to  do  these 
things,  when  you  were  only  a  prioress  under  an  abbess. 
If  you  now  bestow  the  same  care  upon  your  daughters 
that  you  then  bestowed  upon  your  sisters,  I  believe  it 
is  a  sufficient  reason  why  I  should  regard  any  in- 
struction or  exhortation  on  my  part  as  superfluous. 
But  if  it  seems  otherwise  to  you  in  your  humility,  and 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  159 

you  are  in  need  of  my  direction  and  teaching  in  re- 
gard to  those  things  that  pertain  to  G-od,  inform  me 
upon  what  subject  you  wish  me  to  write,  that  I  may 
answer  you  upon  that  point,  as  the  Lord  shall  give 
me  ability. 

But,  thanks  to  G-od,  who,  breathing  into  your 
heart  solicitude  on  account  of  the  weighty  and  immi- 
nent perils  to  which  I  am  exposed,  has  made  you  par- 
taker of  my  affliction ;  so  that  by  the  intercession  of 
your  prayers,  the  divine  compassion  may  protect  me, 
and  shortly  put  Satan  under  my  feet.  Especially  for 
this  end,  I  have  hastened  to  send  the  form  of  prayer 
which  you,  my  sister,  once  dear  to  me  in  the  world, 
now  most  dear  to  me  in  Christ,  earnestly  solicited 
from  me.  By  repeating  this,  you  will  give  to  the 
Lord  a  sacrifice  of  prayer,  in  order  to  expiate  my 
great  and  manifold  transgressions,  and  to  avert  the 
perils  which  continually  threaten  me. 

But  as  to  the  favor  which  the  prayers  of  the  faith- 
ful obtain  with  God  and  his  saints,  especially  of 
women,  for  those  that  are  dear  to  them,  and  of  wives 
for  their  husbands,  many  testimonies  and  examples 
occur  to  me.  Convinced  of  their  efficacy,  the  apostle 
admonishes  us  to  pray  without  ceasing.  We  read 
that  the  Lord  said  to  Moses :  "  Let  me  alone,  that 
my  wrath  may  wax  hot."  And  to  Jeremiah  :  "  There- 
fore pray  not  thou  for  this  people,  neither  lift  up  cry 
nor  prayer  for  them,  neither  make  intercession  to  me." 


160  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

By  these  words,  God  himself  clearly  shows  that  the 
prayers  of  saints  put  upon  his  own  anger  a  rein  which 
checks  it,  and  hinders  him  from  inflicting  upon  the 
wicked  the  punishment  they  deserve.  He  whom  jus- 
tice naturally  conducts  to  vengeance,  is  turned  by  the 
supplications  of  his  servants,  and,  as  if  by  a  certain 
force,  is  as  it  were  involuntarily  restrained.  So  to 
him  that  is  praying,  or  about  to  pray,  it  is  said : 
"  Let  me  alone,  and  do  not  make  intercession  to  me." 
The  Lord  commands  us  not  to  pray  for  the  impious. 
The  just  man  prays,  notwithstanding  the  prohibition 
of  the  Lord,  and  obtains  from  him  what  he  asks  for, 
and  changes  the  sentence  of  the  angry  judge.  So  to 
the  supplication  of  Moses  is  subjoined  the  words : 
"  And  the  Lord  repented  of  the  evil  which  he  thought 
to  do  unto  his  people." 

It  is  written  elsewhere,  concerning  the  universal 
works  of  God :  "  He  commanded,  and  they  were 
created."  But  in  this  place  it  is  to  be  remembered 
that  he  said  his  people  had  merited  affliction,  and 
that,  prevented  by  the  virtue  of  prayer,  he  did  not 
fulfil  what  he  had  said.  Learn,  then,  how  great  is 
the  efficacy  of  prayer,  if  we  pray  as  we  are  com- 
manded; since  what  the  Lord  had  commanded  him 
not  to  pray  for,  the  prophet  nevertheless  obtained  by 
praying,  and  turned  the  Lord  from  what  he  had  said. 
Another  prophet  again  says  to  him :  "  In  wrath  re- 
member mercy." 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  161 

Let  those  princes  of  the  earth  hear  this  and  be  in- 
structed, who  pursue  with  more  obstinacy  than  justice 
the  infractions  of  their  decrees,  and  blush  at  seeming 
remiss  if  they  become  compassionate,  and  wicked  if 
they  change  an  edict,  or  do  not  fulfil  the  tenor  of  an 
imprudent  law,  although  they  might  amend  words  by 
deeds.  They  might  be  compared  to  Jephtha,  who 
made  a  foolish  vow,  and  more  foolishly  fulfilled  it,  by 
sacrificing  his  only  daughter. 

He  who  wishes  to  become  a  member  of  the  Eternal 
says  with  the  Psalmist :  "I  will  sing  of  mercy  and 
judgment :  unto  thee,  0  Lord,  will  I  sing."  "  Mercy, 
as  it  is  written,  exalteth  judgment."  In  regard  to 
which  the  Scripture  elsewhere  declares :  "  For  he 
shall  have  judgment  without  mercy  that  showed  no 
mercy." 

The  Psalmist  himself,  observing  this  sentiment, 
overcome  by  the  supplications  of  the  wife  of  Nabal 
the  Carmelite,  for  the  sake  of  mercy,  broke  the  oath, 
which  on  account  of  justice  he  had  made,  to  destroy 
her  husband  and  his  whole  household.  David,  there- 
fore, preferred  prayer  to  justice ;  and  the  supplication 
of  the  wife  effaced  the  crime  of  her  husband. 

Let  this  example,  my  sister,  encourage  your  ten- 
derness, and  be  for  it  a  pledge  of  security ;  for  if  the 
prayer  of  this  woman  obtained  so  much  from  a  man, 
do  not  doubt  that  God  will  hear  your  prayer  in  my 
behalf.  Surely  God,  who  is  our  Father,  loves  his 


162  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

children  more  than  David  loved  a  supplicating  woman. 
And  he  indeed  was  esteemed  a  pious  and  merciful 
man ;  but  piety  itself  and  mercy  itself  is  God.  And 
the  woman  who  supplicated  David  belonged  to  the 
profane  world,  and  the  sanctity  of  the  religious  pro- 
fession had  not  made  her  the  spouse  of  God. 

If  indeed  your  intercession  cannot  deliver  me,  the 
holy  community  of  virgins  and  widows  who  are  with 
you  will  obtain  that  which  might  not  be  awarded  to 
your  prayers  alone.  In  fact,  he  who  is  truth  itself 
has  said  to  his  disciples :  "  Where  two  or  three  are 
gathered  together  in  my  name,  there  am  I  in  the 
midst  of  them."  And  again:  "If  two  of  you  shall 
agree  on  earth,  as  touching  any  thing  that  they  shall 
ask,  it  shall  be  done  for  them  of  my  Father  which  is 
in  heaven."  Who  cannot  see  how  much  the  frequent 
prayers  of  a  pious  congregation  may  avail  with  God  ? 
If,  as  St.  James  affirms,  "  the  effectual  fervent  prayer 
of  a  righteous  man  availeth  much,"  what  may  not  be 
hoped  for  from  the  multitude  of  a  holy  congregation  ? 

You  know,  dearest  sister,  from  the  thirty-eighth 
homily  of  St.  Gregory,  the  marvellous  effects  which 
the  prayers  of  certain  men  produced  upon  their  bro- 
ther, in  spite  of  his  resistance  and  incredulity.  What 
is  there  carefully  written  down  concerning  the  extreme 
bodily  peril  of  this  man,  concerning  the  most  miser- 
able anxiety  of  his  soul,  and  the  despair  and  weari- 
ness of  his  life,  has  not  escaped  your  attention.  And 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  163 

oh  that  this  might  invite  you,  and  the  assembly  of 
your  sisters,  more  confidently  to  pray  that  he  may 
keep  me  alive  for  you,  through  whom,  according  to 
the  testimony  of  Paul,  women  received  their  dead 
raised  to  life  again  ! 

For  if  you  turn  over  the  pages  of  both  testaments, 
you  will  find  that  the  great  miracles  of  resuscitation 
were  exhibited  only,  or  by  preference,  to  women,  and 
that,  either  for  them  or  upon  them,  these  miracles 
were  performed.  The  Old  Testament  mentions  that 
two  dead  persons  were  revived  on  account  of  maternal 
prayers — one  by  Elijah,  the  other  by  Elisha.  The 
New  Testament  contains  an  account  of  the  resuscita- 
tion of  three  persons  by  the  Lord,  which,  being  exhi- 
bited to  women,  most  especially  confirm  the  language 
of  the  apostle  which  we  quoted :  "  Women  recovered 
their  dead  raised  to  life  again." 

Indeed,  at  the  gate  of  the  city  of  Nain,  he  resus- 
citated and  returned  to  his  mother  the  son  of  a  widow, 
touched  with  pity  for  her.  He  also  raised  Lazarus, 
his  friend,  from  the  dead,  at  the  earnest  supplications 
of  his  sisters,  Mary  and  Martha.  When  he  accorded 
the  same  favor  to  the  master  of  the  synagogue,  in 
answer  to  the  prayer  of  her  father,  "  Women  received 
their  dead  raised  to  life  again ; "  since,  being  resusci- 
tated, she  had  received  her  own  body  again,  as  the 
others  had  received  the  bodies  of  their  relatives.  Few 
persons  indeed  interceded  with  their  prayers,  yet 


1G4  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

these  resuscitations  were  granted.  The  manifold 
prayers  of  your  devotion  will  easily  obtain  the  preser- 
vation of  my  life. 

Your  abstinence  as  well  as  continence,  which  is, 
as  it  were,  a  sacrifice  to  God,  will  find  him  so  much 
the  more  propitious  as  it  is  regarded  by  him  with  the 
more  grace.  And  perhaps  the  greater  part  of  those 
who  were  restored  to  life  were  not  faithful.  We  are 
not  told  that  the  widow,  for  whom  the  Lord  revival 
her  son  without  her  asking  it,  was  faithful.  But  we 
indeed  are  not  only  bound  to  the  faith  by  integrity, 
but  we  are  also  united  by  the  same  religious  vows. 

I  will  now  omit  your  monastic  congregation,  in 
which  very  many  virgins  and  widows  bear  devotedly 
the  yoke  of  the  Lord  ;  to  you  alone  will  I  go — to  you, 
whose  sanctity  I  know  is  very  powerful  with  God, 
whose  succor  is  due  to  me  first  of  all,  especially  in  the 
midst  of  the  adversities  which  overwhelm  me.  He- 
member,  therefore,  always  in  your  prayers  him  who  is 
especially  thine,  and  persevere  in  your  prayer  with 
the  more  confidence  on  account  of  the  justice  of  your 
petition,  which  will  render  it  the  more  acceptable  to 
God,  to  whom  we  must  pray.  Hear,  I  beseech  you, 
with  the  ear  of  the  heart,  what  you  have  frequently 
heard  with  the  outward  ear.  It  is  written  in  Proverbs  : 
"  A  virtuous  woman  is  a  crown  to  her  husband." 
And  again :  "  Whoso  findeth  a  wife,  findeth  a  good 
thing,  and  obtaineth  favor  of  the  Lord."  And  in  an- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  165 

other  place :  "  Houses  and  riches  are  the  inheritance 
of  fathers:  and  a  prudent  wife  is  from  the  Lord." 
And  in  Ecclesiastes  [Apocrypha]  : 

"  Blessed  is  the  man  that  hath  a  virtuous  wife." 

And  a  few  lines  after : 

"  A  good  wife  is  a  good  portion." 

And  according  to  apostolic  authority : 

"  The  unbelieving  husband  is  sanctified  by  the 
wife." 

The  divine  grace  has  permitted  our  country  of 
France  to  experience  this  truth,  since,  by  the  prayer 
of  his  wife  Clotilda,  rather  than  by  the  preaching  of 
saints,  King  Clovis,  being  converted  to  the  faith  of 
Christ,  the  whole  kingdom  was  so  subjected  to  the 
divine  law,  that,  by  the  example  of  the  higher  classes, 
the  lower  classes  were  invited  to  perseverance  in 
prayer.  This  perseverance  is  especially  recommended 
to  us  in  the  parable  of  the  Lord : 

"  Which  of  you  shall  have  a  friend,  and  shall  go 
unto  him  at  midnight,  and  say  unto  him,  Friend,  lend 
me  three  loaves ;  for  a  friend  of  mine  in  his  journey 
is  come  to  me,  and  I  have  nothing  to  set  before  him  ? 
And  he  from  within  shall  answer  and  say,  Trouble 
me  not ;  the  door  is  now  shut,  and  my  children  are 
with  me  in  bed ;  I  cannot  rise  and  give  thee.  I  say 
unto  you,  Though  he  will  not  rise  and  give  him,  be- 
cause he  is  his  friend,  yet  because  of  his  importunity 
he  will  rise  and  give  him  as  many  as  he  needeth." 


1C6  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

By  this  importunity  of  prayer,  thus  to  speak, 
Moses,  as  I  mentioned  above,  softened  the  severity  of 
divine  justice,  and  changed  its  sentence. 

You  know,  dearest,  how  much  affection  your  con- 
vent heretofore  was  accustomed  to  show  me  in  prayer, 
when  I  was  present.  At  the  close  of  the  canonical 
hours,  the  sisters  were  accustomed  to  offer  for  me  a 
special  supplication  to  the  Lord.  After  the  psalmody 
of  the  anthem  and  the  response,  they  added  the  fol 
lowing  prayers  and  collect : 

"  Rcsponsum. — Forsake  me  not,  withdraw  not 
thyself  from  me,  0  Lord." 

"  Versus. — Be  thou,  0  Lord,  always  ready  to 
defend  me." 

"  Preces. — Preserve  thy  servant,  my  God,  who 
putteth  his  trust  in  thee.  0  Lord,  hear  my  prayer, 
and  let  my  cry  come  unto  thee." 

"  Oratio. — 0  God,  who,  through  the  least  of  thy 
servants,  hast  been  pleased  to  gather  together  in  thy 
name  thy  handmaidens,  we  beseech  thee  to  grant  unto 
him,  as  well  as  us,  to  persevere  in  thy  will.  Through 
our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  etc. 

But  now  in  my  absence  from  you,  I  have  the  more 
need  of  your  prayers,  since  I  am  overwhelmed  with 
anxiety  on  account  of  increasing  peril.  I  supplicate 
and  beseech  you,  and  beseech  and  supplicate  you,  that 
I  may  experience  now  in  my  absence  the  sincerity  of 
the  tenderness  which  you  exhibited  to  me  when  I  was 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  167 

with  you,  by  your  adding  at  the  end  of  the  canonical 
hours  this  formula  of  prayer : 

"  Responsum. — Forsake  me  not,  0  Lord,  the  Fa- 
ther and  Governor  of  my  life,  lest  I  fall  before  my 
adversaries,  and  mine  enemy  rejoice  over  me." 

"  Versus. — Take  thy  arms  and  thy  shield,  and  arise 
in  my  defence,  lest  he  rejoice." 

"  Preces. — Preserve  thy  servant,  my  God,  who 
putteth  his  trust  in  thee.  Send  unto  him,  0  Lord, 
the  help  of  thy  Holy  One ;  and  from  Sion  protect 
him.  Be  to  him,  0  Lord,  a  tower  of  fortitude  in  the 
presence  of  his  enemies.  0  Lord,  hear  my  prayer, 
and  let  my  cry  come  unto  thee." 

"  Oratio. — 0  God,  who  through  thy  servant  hast 
been  pleased  to  gather  together  thy  handmaidens,  we 
beseech  thee  to  protect  him  from  all  adversity,  and  to 
return  him  safe  to  thy  handmaidens.  Through  our 
Lord  Jesus  Christ,"  etc. 

If  the  Lord  should  deliver  me  into  the  hands  of 
my  enemies,  and  they  prevailing  over  me,  should  de- 
stroy me,  or,  by  any  fortune  whatever,  should  I,  absent 
from  you,  go  the  way  of  all  flesh,  I  beseech  you 
to  transfer  my  body,  whether  it  may  have  been 
buried  or  may  lie  exposed,  to  your  cemetery,  where 
our  daughters,  yes,  our  sisters  in  Christ,  more  fre- 
quently beholding  my  tomb,  may  be  invited  to  pour 
forth  their  prayers  for  me  to  the  Lord.  I  suppose 
that  no  place  can  be  safer  and  more  salutary  for  a 


108  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

contrite  and  penitent  soul,  than  that  which  is  appro- 
priately consecrated  to  the  true  Paraclete,  that  is,  to 
the  Comforter ;  and  is  especially  adorned  with  that 
name.  Neither  do  I  believe  that  there  is  a  more 
appropriate  place  for  Christian  burial,  among  the 
faithful,  than  the  cloisters  of  females  devoted  to 
Christ.  It  was  women  who  were  solicitous  concerning 
the  burial  of  the  Lord  Christ  Jesus,  who,  both  before 
and  after  his  burial,  used  precious  ointments,  who 
faithfully  kept  watch  at  the  sepulchre,  and  wept  the 
loss  of  their  spouse.  They  also  were  first  consoled 
by  the  appearance  and  the  words  of  the  angel  that 
announced  the  resurrection  of  Christ,  and  soon  after 
they  merited  to  taste  the  joys  of  his  resurrection,  to  see 
him  twice  appear,  and  to  touch  him  with  their  hands. 

Finally,  above  all  things,  I  ask  you,  who  are  now 
too  solicitous  on  account  of  the  perils  to  which  my 
body  is  exposed,  to  be  especially  solicitous  in  regard 
to  the  safety  of  my  soul,  to  exhibit  to  me  when  I  am 
dead  how  much  you  have  loved  me  during  my  life, 
by  awarding  to  me  the  special  and  particular  benefit 
of  your  prayers. 

Live,  you  and  your  sisters — live,  and  remember 
me  in  Christ.* 

*  In  the  original,  a  couplet: 

"  Vive,  vale,  vivantqne  tuae,  valoantqne  sorores, 
Vivite,  sed  Christo,  quteso,  mei  mem- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  169 


XXVI. 

LETTER  OF  HELOISE  TO  ABELARD. 


**  Ah  wretch !  believed  the  spouse  of  God  in  vain, 
Confessed  within  the  slave  of  love  and  man. 
Assist  me,  heav'n !  but  whence  arose  that  pray'r? 
Sprung  it  from  piety,  or  from  despair  ? 
Ev'n  here,  where  frozen  chastity  retires, 
Love  finds  an  altar  for  forbidden  fires. 
I  ought  to  grieve ;  but  cannot  what  I  ought ; 
I  mourn  the  lover,  not  lament  the  fault ; 
I  view  my  crime,  but  kindle  at  the  view, 
Repent  old  pleasures,  and  solicit  new ; 
Now  turned  to  heav'n,  I  weep  my  past  offence, 
Now  think  of  thee,  and  curse  my  innocence. 
Of  all  afflictions  taught  a  lover  yet, 
Tis  sure  the  hardest  science  to  forget! 
How  shall  I  lose  the  sin,  yet  keep  the  sense, 
And  love  th'  offender,  yet  detest  th'  offence  ? 
How  the  dear  object  from  the  crime  remove, 
Or  how  distinguish  penitence  from  lovo  ? 
Unequal  task !  a  passion  to  resign, 
For  hearts  so  touched,  so  pierced,  so  lost  as  mine. 
Ere  such  a  soul  regains  its  peaceful  state, 
How  often  must  it  love,  how  often  hate ! 
How  often  hope,  despair,  resent,  regret, 
Conceal,  disdain, — do  all  things  but  forget. 

8 


170 


LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


But  let  heaven  seize  it,  all  at  once  'tis  fired ; 
Not  touch'd,  but  rapt ;  not  waken'd,  but  inspired ! 
Oh  come !  oh  teach  me  nature  to  subdue, 
Renounce  my  love,  my  life,  myself—  and  you. 
Fill  my  fond  heart  with  God  alone,  for  he 
Alone  can  rival,  can  succeed  to  thee." 

TOPE'S  "Eloiaa  to  Abdard: 


To  her  only  one  after  Christ, — hit  only  one  in  Christ. 
TO    ABELARD    HELOISE. 

I  AM  astonished,  dearest,  that,  transcending  the  cus- 
tom of  epistles,  even  contrary  to  the  natural  course 
of  things,  in  the  address  of  your  letter,  you  have 
placed  me  before  yourself; — a  woman  before  a  man, 
a  wife  before  her  husband,  a  handmaid  before  her 
lord,  a  nun  before  a  monk,  a  deaconess  before  an 
abbe.  Surely  it  is  the  right  and  becoming  order, 
when  we  write  to  superiors  or  to  equals,  to  place  their 
names  before  our  own.  But  if  we  are  writing  to 
inferiors,  the  order  of  names  must  follow  the  order  of 
dignity. 

We  have  also  been  not  a  little  astonished  that 
you  should  increase  the  desolation  of  those  to  whom 
you  ought  to  have  offered  the  remedy  of  consolation, 
and  that  you  should  excite  the  tears  which  you  ought 
to  have  wiped  away.  For  who  of  us  could  read 
without  weeping  what  you  wrote  near  the  end  of  your 
letter :  "If  the  Lord  should  deliver  me  into  the 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  171 

Lands  of  my  enemies,  and  they,  prevailing  over  me 
should  destroy  me  .  .  .  .?  &c."  0  dearest!  how 
could  your  heart  conceive  such  a  thing,  and  how  could 
your  lips  endure  to  speak  it  ?  Never  may  the  Lord 
so  forget  his  poor  servants  as  to  make  them  survivors 
of  thee  !  Never  may  he  grant  us  a  life,  which  would 
be  more  insupportable  than  every  species  of  death  ! 
It  belongs  to  you  to  celebrate  our  obsequies,  to  com- 
mend our  souls  to  God,  and  to  send  before  you  to 
him  those  that  you  have  assembled  in  his  name,  that 
you  may  no  longer  be  solicitous  concerning  them,  and 
that  you  may  follow  us  with  the  more  joy  on  account 
of  your  greater  security  in  regard  to  our  safety. 

Spare,  I  beseech  you,  my  lord,  spare  such  words, 
by  which  you  make  those  that  are  already  miserable, 
most  miserable  ;  and  do  not  rob  us  before  death  of 
that  little  of  life  which  remains  to  us.  Sufficient 
unto  the  day  is  the  evil  thereof ;  and  that  day,  full  of 
bitterness,  will  bring  anguish  enough  with  it  to  all 
whom  it  shall  find.  "  For  why  is  it  necessary,"  says 
Seneca,  "  to  anticipate  evils,  and  to  lose  life  before 
death?" 

You  ask,  my  only  one,  should  any  accident 
shorten  your  days,  while  you  are  absent  from  us,  that 
we  may  cause  your  body  to  be  removed  to  our  ceme- 
tery, in  order  that  you  may  receive  the  greater  bene- 
fit of  our  prayers,  which  will  be  constantly  called 
forth  by  memory  of  you.  But  how,  indeed,  could 


172  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

you  suppose  us  capable  of  forgetting  you  ?  But 
what  time  will  be  fit  for  prayer,  when  the  highest  per- 
turbation shall  permit  no  quiet  ? — when  neither  the 
soul  shall  retain  the  sense  of  reason,  nor  the  tongue 
the  use  of  speech? — when  the  mind  insane,  thus  to 
speak,  towards  God  himself,  having  already  irritated 
rather  than  appeased  him,  shall  not  appease  him  by 
prayers  so  much  as  it  shall  irritate  him  by  com- 
plaints ?  Then  nothing  will  remain  for  us  unfortu- 
nates but  to  weep  ;  it  will  not  be  permitted  us  to 
pray,  and  it  will  be  necessary  for  us  to  follow  rather 
than  to  bury  you ;  and  we  shall  be  in  a  condition  to 
be  interred  instead  of  being  able  to  inter  another. 
We,  who  will  have  lost  our  life  in  you,  shall  in  no 
way  be  able  to  live,  when  you  are  gone.  And  oh  that 
we  may  not  be  able  to  live  so  long !  The  mention  of 
your  death  is  a  kind  of  death  to  us.  But  what  must 
be  the  reality  of  your  death,  if  it  shall  find  us  still 
living?  May  God  never  permit  that,  as  your  sur- 
vivors, we  may  pay  the  debt  to  you,  or  that  to  you  we 
may  leave  the  patrimony,  which  from  you  we  expect ! 
Oh  that,  in  this,  we  may  precede,  and  not  follow  you  ! 

Spare  us,  then,  I  beseech  you  ;  spare  at  least  thy 
only  one,  by  omitting  to  use  such  words,  which  pierce 
our  souls  like  swords  of  death,  which  render  the  anti- 
cipation of  death  more  terrible  than  death  itself. 

The  soul  that  is  overwhelmed  with  grief  is  not 
quiet,  neither  is  the  mind  that  is  filled  with  perturba- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  173 

tions  open  to  divine  influences.  Be  unwilling,  I  be- 
seech you,  to  hinder  us  from  serving  God,  to  whom 
you  have  devoted  our  lives.  It  is  to  be  desired  that  an 
inevitable  event,  which,  when  it  comes,  brings  deep  sor- 
row with  it,  may  come  unexpectedly,  lest  that  which 
no  human  foresight  can  turn  aside,  may  torment  us 
long  beforehand  with  useless  fear.  Full  of  this 
thought  the  poet  thus  prays  to  Grod : 

"Sit  subitum  quodcumque  paras,  sit  cseca  futuri, 
Mens  hominum  fati.     Liceat  sperari  timenti."* 

But  if  you  were  lost,  what  hope  would  there  be 
left  to  me  ?  or  what  cause  would  there  be  for  remain- 
ing in  this  pilgrimage  of  life,  where  I  have  no  remedy 
for  its  ills  but  you,  and  no  remedy  in  you  except  the 
fact  that  you  live  ?  All  other  pleasures  from  you  are 
denied  me.  Your  presence,  which  could  sometimes 
return  me  to  myself,  it  is  not  permitted  me  to  enjoy. 

Oh !  if  I  may  say  it,  Heaven  has  been  cruel  to  me 
beyond  all  conception.  0  inclement  clemency !  0  un- 
fortunate fortune !  she  has  so  far  consumed  her  weapons 
against  me,  that  she  has  none  left  for  others  against 
whom  she  rages  !  Against  me  she  has  exhausted  her 
full  quiver,  so  that  others  in  vain  fear  her  resentment. 

*  "  May  whatever  thou  preparest  be  unexpected,  may  the 
mind  of  men  be  blind  to  future  fate.  May  it  be  permitted  to 
him  who  fears  to  hope."  These  lines  are  from  Lucan. 


174  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Neither  would  she  find  a  place  in  me  for  another 
wound,  if  she  had  a  single  arrow  left.  Among  so 
many  wounds  she  fears  to  inflict  one  more,  lest  my 
punishments  be  ended  with  death.  And  although  she 
does  not  cease  to  work  at  my  destruction,  yet  she  fears 
the  death  which  she  hastens. 

0  I  am  the  most  miserable  of  the  miserable,  the 
most  unhappy  of  the  unhappy!  I  was  elevated  by 
your  love  above  all  women;  but  thrown  down  thence, 
my  fall  in  my  person  and  yours,  has  been  proportion- 
ed to  my  elevation.  The  greater  the  elevation  is.  the 
more  terrible  is  the  ruin  !  Among  noble  and  power- 
ful women,  whom  has  fortune  been  able  to  place  before 
me,  or  to  make  equal  to  me  ?  Whom  has  she  so  cast 
down  and  overwhelmed  with  grief  ?  What  glory  did 
she  confer  on  me  in  you !  In  you  what  ruin  did  she 
bring  upon  me!  How  she  has  carried  to  extremes 
both  favor  and  disgrace,  so  that  she  has  observed  mod- 
eration neither  in  good  nor  in  evil !  She  made  me  be- 
forehand more  fortunate  than  all,  in  order  that  she 
might  make  me  the  most  miserable  of  all ;  that,  when 
meditating  upon  the  extent  of  my  loss,  lamentations 
might  consume  me,  equal  to  the  griefs  that  had  op- 
pressed me ;  that  a  bitterness  on  account  of  things 
lost  might  succeed,  equal  to  the  love  of  things  possess- 
ed which  had  preceded;  and  that  the  joy  of  the  high- 
est pleasure  might  terminate  with  the  deepest  sorrow 
and  pain. 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  175 

And,  in  order  that  more  indignation  should  spring 
from  the  injury,  all  the  rights  of  equity  have  been  vi- 
olated in  regard  to  us.  For  while  we  were  enjoying 
the  pleasures  of  a  solicitous  love,*  we  were  spared  the 
vengeance  of  heaven.  But  when  we  corrected  unlaw- 
ful relations  with  those  lawful,  and  covered  the  base- 
ness of  fornication  with  the  honor  of  marriage,  the 
angry  hand  of  the  Lord  was  laid  heavily  upon  us,  and 
the  conjugal  couch  could  not  procure  pardon  for  its 
chaste  pleasures  from  him  who  had  so  long  tolerated 
pleasures  that  were  impure. 

A  man  caught  in  any  act  of  adultery  would  suffi- 
ciently expiate  his  crime  by  the  punishment  which  you 
have  endured.  What  others  incur  by  adultery,  you 
have  incurred  by  the  marriage  by  which  you  were  ex- 
pecting to  make  satisfaction  for  all  injuries.  What 
adulterous  females  bring  upon  their  paramours,  your 
own  wife  brought  upon  you.  Neither  was  this  when 
we  were  wholly  abandoned  to  our  earliest  pleasures, 
but  when,  separated  for  a  time,  we  were  living  more 
chastely ;  you  at  Paris,  presiding  over  the  schools, 
I  at  Argenteuil,  by  your  order,  in  the  company  of 
the  nuns.  This  separation  should  have  protected 
us,  for  we  had  imposed  it  on  ourselves;  you,  in  order 
to  devote  yourself  more  studiously  to  your  pupils,  I,  in 
order  to  devote  myself  more  freely  to  prayer  or  medita- 

*  "  Ut  turpiore,  sed  expressione  vocabulo  utar,  fornicatio 
vacaremur." 


176  LIVK.S     AND     LiiiiKiiS     OF 

tion  of  Holy  Scripture ;  arid  while  we  were  living  so 
much  the  more  holy  as  we  were  the  more  chaste,  you 
alone  expiated  with  your  blood  the  crime  which  was 
common  to  us  both.  You  alone  bore  the  punishment ; 
both  were  in  fault ;  you  were  the  least  culpable,  and 
you  bore  all  the  pain. 

In  lowering  yourself,  and  elevating  me  and  all  of 
my  family  to  the  honor  of  your  alliance,  you  rendered 
sufficient  satisfaction  to  God  and  men,  not  to  deserve 
the  chastisement  which  those  traitors  inflicted  upon 
you.  0  how  unfortunate  I  am,  that  I  should  have 
been  born  to  be  the  cause  of  so  great  a  crime  !  0  fa- 
tal sex !  It  will  always  be  the  destruction  of  the 
greatest  men  !  Hence  it  is  written  in  Proverbs,  con- 
cerning the  shunning  of  women :  "  Hearken  unto  me, 
therefore,  0  ye  children,  and  attend  to  the  words 
of  my  mouth.  Let  not  thine  heart  incline  to  her 
ways,  go  not  astray  in  her  paths.  For  she  hath  cast 
down  many  wounded :  yea,  many  strong  men  have 
been  slain  by  her.  Her  house  is  the  way  to  hell,  go- 
ing down  to  the  chambers  of  death."  And  in  Eccle- 
siastes :  "  And  I  find  more  bitter  than  death  the 
woman  whose  heart  is  snares  and  nets,  and  her  hands 
as  bands :  whoso  pleaseth  God  shall  escape  from  her, 
but  the  sinner  shall  be  taken  by  her." 

At  the  beginning,  the  first  woman  seduced  man, 
and  was  the  cause  of  his  being  driven  out  of  paradise : 
she  who  had  been  created  by  the  Lord  as  an  aid  to 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  177 

him,  became  the  means  of  his  destruction.  That 
bravest  Nazarite,  the  man  of  the  Lord,  whose  concep- 
tion had  been  announced  by  an  angel,  was  overcome 
by  Delilah  alone,  and,  delivered  up  to  his  enemies,  and 
deprived  of  his  eyes,  was  driven  by  her  to  such  an 
extent  of  grief,  that  he  destroyed  himself,  in  a  com- 
mon ruin  with  his  enemies.  Solomon,  the  wisest  of 
men,  was  so  infatuated  with  a  single  woman  that  he 
had  espoused,  and  was  driven  by  her  to  such  a  state 
of  insanity,  that  he  whom  the  Lord  had  chosen  for 
building  his  temple, — his  father,  David,  notwithstand- 
ing his  justice,  having  been  found  unworthy  of  doing 
this, — was  plunged  by  her  into  idolatry  until  the  end 
of  his  life,  abandoning  the  worship  of  the  true  God, 
whose  glory  he  had  celebrated,  whose  commandments 
he  had  taught,  with  the  words  of  his  mouth  and  his 
writings.  The  saintly  Job  experienced  his  last  and 
sorest  trial  in  his  wife,  who  excited  him  to  curse  God. 
The  subtle  tempter  knew  well,  for  he  had  often 
proved  it,  that  the  easiest  ruin  for  men  is  found  in 
their  wives. 

Extending  his  ordinary  malice  to  us,  you,  whom 
he  had  not  been  able  to  destroy  by  fornication,  he 
tried  with  marriage ;  he  found  in  good  the  instrument 
of  destruction  which  he  had  not  been  able  to  find  in 
evil. 

I  thank  God  for  one  thing  at  least,  that  I  do  not  at 

all  resemble  the  women  that  I  have  cited  ;  that  the 

8* 


1 78  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tempter  has  not  made  me  consent  to  the  fault,  for  the 
commission  of  which,  nevertheless,  I  was  made  the 
cause.  Although  I  am  justified  by  the  purity  of  my 
intentions,  I  have  in  no  way  incurred  the  penalty  of 
consenting  to  this  crime;  nevertheless  I  have  com- 
mitted many  sins,  which  do  not  allow  me  to  believe 
myself  entirely  innocent  of  it.  Inasmuch  as  I  served 
the  pleasures  of  carnal  delights,  I  therefore  have  de- 
served what  I  now  suffer,  and  the  consequences  of  my 
previous  sins  have  justly  become  punishments. 

0  that  I  could  do  penance  worthy  of  this  crime, 
that  the  length  of  my  expiation  might  in  some  sort 
balance  the  pains  of  your  punishment ;  and  that  what 
you  have  suffered  for  a  moment  in  body  I  might  suffer 
during  my  whole  life  in  contrition  of  mind,  and  that 
this  might  satisfy  you  at  least,  if  not  God ! 

To  confess  to  you  the  infirmity  of  my  most 
wretched  mind,  I  find  no  penance  with  which  I  am 
able  to  appease  God,  whom  I  am  always  accusing 
of  the  greatest  cruelty,  on  account  of  this  injury; 
and,  opposed  to  his  dispensation,  I  offend  him  more 
with  my  indignation,  than  I  appease  him  with  the 
satisfaction  of  my  penance.  It  cannot  be  said  that 
penance  has  been  made  for  him,  however  great  may 
be  the  bodily  affliction,  if  the  mind  still  retains  a  wil- 
lingness to  sin,  and  is  still  swayed  by  its  primitive 
desires.  It  is  easy  to  confess  our  faults,  to  accuse 
ourselves  of  them,  or  even  to  afflict  our  bodies  with 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  179 

external  pains.  It  is  extremely  difficult  to  tear  the 
mind  away  from  the  desires  of  the  highest  pleasures. 
This  is  the  reason  why  Job,  after  having  said: 
"  Therefore  I  will  not  refrain  my  mouth," — that  is,  I 
will  loose  my  tongue,  and  open  my  mouth  in  confes- 
sion, that  it  may  accuse  me  of  my  sins, — immediately 
added:  "  I  will  speak  in  the  anguish  of  my  spirit." 
Gregory,  in  an  exposition  of  this  passage,  says : 
"  There  are  some  who  confess  faults  with  an  open 
mouth,  but  they  know  not  how  to  confess  with  con- 
trite hearts,  and  rejoice  while  saying  things  to  be  be- 
wailed." It  is  not  sufficient  to  avow  our  faults,  it  is 
necessary  to  avow  them  in  bitterness  of  soul,  in  order 
that  this  very  bitterness  may  punish  us  for  whatever 
the  tongue  accuses  us,  through  the  judgment  of  the 
mind. 

But  this  bitterness  of  true  repentance  is  very  rare, 
as  St.  Ambrose  has  remarked :  "  I  have  found  more 
who  have  preserved  innocence,  than  who  have  truly 
repented."  But  those  pleasures  of  love,  which  we 
enjoyed  together,  were  so  sweet  to  me,  that  they  can 
neither  displease  me,  nor  glide  from  my  memory. 
Wherever  I  go,  they  present  themselves  to  my  eyes, 
with  all  their  allurements.  Neither  are  their  illusions 
wanting  to  me  in  my  dreams. 

During  the  solemnity  of  divine  service,  when 
prayer  ought  to  be  the  more  pure,  the  enticing  phan- 
toms of  those  pleasures  so  take  possession  of  my  most 


180  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

miserable  soul,  that  I  am  occupied  with  those 
delights,  rather  than  with  my  prayer.  When  I  ought 
to  be  grieving  for  the  commission  of  sins,  I  am  rather 
sighing  for  the  return  of  pleasures  that  are  lost.  Not 
Dnly  the  things  which  we  did,  but  the  times  and  places 
*n  which  we  did  them,  have  been  with  your  image  so 
fixed  in  my  mind,  that  during  my  waking  hours,  all  is 
lived  over  again  in  imagination,  and  in  my  dreams,  all 
the  past  returns.  Sometimes  the  cogitations  of  my 
mind  are  manifested  in  my  motions  and  expressions, 
and  words  escape  me  which  betray  the  irregularity  of 
my  thoughts. 

0  truly  miserable  I  am,  and  most  worthy  of  that 
complaining  of  a  grieving  soul !  "  0  wretched  man 
that  I  am,  who  shall  deliver  me  from  the  body  of  this 
di-ath?"  And  would  that  I  could  truly  add  what 
follows :  "I  thank  God,  through  Jesus  Christ  our 
Lord." 

This  grace,  dearest,  has  come  to  you,  and  a  single 
corporeal  plague  has  protected  you  against  many 
plagues  of  soul,  and  God  is  found  to  be  the  most  pro- 
pitious in  that  wherein  he  is  believed  to  be  most  ad- 
verse to  you.  He  is  like  a  physician,  who  does  not 
spare  pain,  provided  he  can  save  the  life  of  his  patient.* 

*  His  autem  in  me  stimulos  carnis,  hsec  incentiva  libidinis, 
ipse  juvenilis  fervor  rotatis,  et  jucundissimanim  experientia 
voluptatum,  plurirroim  acceduut,  et  tanto  amplius  suzi  me  ini- 
pngnatione  opprimunt,  quanto  infirmior  est  natura  quam 
oppugnant. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  181 

I  am  called  chaste,  because  it  has  not  been  per- 
ceived that  I  am  a  hypocrite.  Purity  of  the  flesh  is 
taken  for  virtue,  as  though  virtue  belonged  to  the 
body  instead  of  the  soul.  I  am  praised  by  men,  but 
I  have  no  merit  with  God,  who  proves  the  heart  and 
reins,  and  sees  in  secret. 

L  am  praised  for  being  religious  in  these  times, 
when  there  is  only  a  small  part  of  religion  that  is  not 
hypocrisy;  when  he  is  most  extolled  who  does  not 
offend  the  judgment  of  men.  Doubtless,  it  is  in  some 
manner  laudable,  and  in  some  manner  appears  accept- 
able to  God,  not  to  scandalize  the  church  by  the  bad 
example  of  an  outward  act,  whatever  the  motive  may 
be ;  for  thus  we  do  not  give  infidels  an  occasion  of 
blaspheming  the  name  of  the  Lord,  and  carnal  men 
an  occasion  of  defaming  the  order  to  which  we  belong. 
And  this,  too,  is  a  gift  of  divine  grace  which  gives 
not  only  the  power  to  do  good,  but  also  the  power  to 
abstain  from  evil.  But  the  latter  precedes  in  vain, 
when  the  former  does  not  succeed,  as  it  is  written : 
"  Abhor  that  which  is  evil,  cleave  to  that  which  is 
good."  And  in  vain  is  either  done,  if  it  is  not  done 
through  the  love  of  God. 

But  in  every  stage  of  my  life,  God  knows  that  I 
have  feared  more  to  offend  you  than  to  offend  him, — 
that  I  have  sought  more  to  please  you  than  to  please 
him.  Thy  command,  and  not  the  love  of  God,  led 
me  to  assume  religious  habit.  See  how  unhappy  a 


182  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

life  is  mine — a  life  more  wretched  than  all  others,  if 
here  I  endure  so  many  things  in  vain,  without  the  ex- 
pectation of  any  reward  in  the  future.  Thus  far  my 
simulation  has  deceived  you,  as  well  as  others ;  you 
have  regarded  that  as  religion  which  was  nothing  but 
hypocrisy ;  so  commending  yourself  to  my  prayers, 
you  ask  from  me  what  I  expect  from  you. 

Do  not,  I  beseech  you,  put  so  much  confidence  in 
me,  lest  you  should  cease  to  succor  me  with  your 
prayers.  Do  not  suppose  me  well,  lest  you  should 
deprive  me  of  the  pleasure  of  a  remedy.  Do  not  be- 
lieve that  I  am  not  needy,  lest  you  should  defer  to 
aid  me  in  my  necessity.  Do  not  suppose  me  strong, 
lest  I  should  fall  ere  you  can  sustain  me.  Many 
have  been  injured  by  flattery,  and  the  support 
which  they  need  she  has  taken  away.  Through  the 
prophet  Isaiah,  the  Lord  exclaims :  "  0  my  people, 
they  which  lead  thee  cause  thee  to  err,  and  destroy 
the  way  of  thy  paths."  And  through  the  mouth  of 
the  prophet  Ezekiel :  "  Woe  to  the  women  that  sew 
pillows  to  all  arm-holes,  and  make  kerchiefs  upon  the 
head  of  every  statue,  to  hunt  souls."*  On  the  other 
hand,  it  is  said  by  Solomon :  "  The  words  of  the  wise 
are  as  goads,  and  as  nails  fastened  by  masters  of  as- 
semblies, which  are  given  from  one  shepherd." 

Desist,  I  beseech  you,  from  praising  me,  lest  you 

*  A  figure,  say  the  commentators,  to  represent  the  lulling 
of  men  to  sleep  by  deceitful  predictions. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  183 

incur  the  known  baseness  of  adulation,  and  the  crime 
of  mendacity ;  or,  if  you  believe  there  is  any  thing 
good  in  me,  do  not  praise  me,  lest  the  praise  itself 
vanish  in  the  breath  of  vanity.  No  skilful  physician 
judges  of  an  interior  disease  by  an  inspection  of  ex- 
ternal appearances.  Nothing  that  is  common  to  repro- 
bates and  the  elect,  obtains  any  merit  with  God.  The 
really  just  often  neglect  those  external  practices  that 
strike  the  attention  of  all,  whilst  no  one  conforms  to 
them  with  greater  ease  than  the  hypocrite. 

The  heart  of  man  is  corrupt  and  ever  inscrutable. 
Who  can  understand  it  ?  There  are  ways  which  seem 
right  to  men ;  but  their  issues  lead  to  death.  The 
judgment  of  men  is  rash  in  those  things  which  are 
reserved  solely  for  the  examination  of  God.  Hence 
it  is  written:  "  Praise  no  man  during  his  lifetime." 
For,  in  praising  a  man,  we  are  liable  to  destroy  the 
virtue  itself  which  makes  him  worthy  of  praise. 

But  your  praise  is  so  much  the  more  perilous  to 
me,  as  it  is  the  more  grateful ;  and  I  am  so  much  the 
more  taken  and  delighted  with  it,  as  I  am  the  more 
studious  to  please  you  in  all  things.  Distrust  me,  I 
beseech  you,  instead  of  confiding  in  me,  that  I  may 
always  be  assisted  with  your  solicitude.  The  danger 
is  greater  now  than  ever,  for  there  is  remaining  in  you 
no  remedy  for  my  incontinence. 

Do  not  exhort  me  to  virtue,  do  not  provoke  me  to 
combat,  in  saying,  "  Virtue  is  perfected  by  trial ; " 


184  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


and,  "  He  only  shall  be  crowned,  who  shall  have 
strived  to  the  last."  I  do  not  seek  the  crown  of  vic- 
tory. It  is  enough  for  me  to  shun  peril.  It  is  safer 
to  shun  peril  than  to  wage  war.  In  whatever  corner 
of  heaven  God  may  place  me,  it  will  satisfy  me.  No 
one  will  there  envy  another,  since  for  each  one,  what 
he  obtains  will  be  sufficient. 

My  position  in  this  respect  is  fortified  by  autho- 
rity. Let  us  hear  St.  Jerome :  "  I  confess  my  weak- 
ness ;  I  am  unwilling  to  contend  in  hope  of  victory, 
lest  in  some  way  I  may  lose  victory.  Why  should 
we  abandon  the  certain,  and  contend  for  the  uncer- 
tain? 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  185 


XXVII. 

EPISTLE  OF  ABELARD  TO  HELOISE. 

To  the  Spouse  of  Christ,  the  Servant  of  the  same. 
TO    HELOISE    ABELARD. 

YOUR  last  letter,  I  remember,  is  summed  up  in  four 
points,  into  which  you  have  disposed  the  vivid  expres- 
sion of  your  complaints.  At  first,  indeed,  you  com- 
plain that,  contrary  to  the  custom  in  letters,  even 
contrary  to  the  natural  order  of  things,  my  letter  di- 
rected to  you  placed  you  before  me  in  the  salutation. 
In  the  second  place,  you  complain  that  I  increased 
your  desolation,  when  I  ought  to  have  offered  consola- 
tion, and  that  I  excited  the  tears  which  it  was  my  duty 
to  wipe  away,  by  saying :  "  If  the  Lord  should  deliver 
me  into  the  hands  of  my  enemies,  and  they  prevailing 
over  me  should  put  me  to  death,"  etc.  In  the  third 
place,  conies  up  again  that  old  and  perpetual  com- 
plaint of  yours  against  Providence,  about  the  mode 
of  our  conversion  to  G-od,  and  the  cruelty  of  the 
treachery  practised  against  me.  Finally,  you  accuse 


186  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

yourself,  in  opposition  to  my  praise,  and  earnestly 
supplicate  me  to  address  you  no  more  in  that  manner. 

I  have  determined  to  answer  your  objections 
singly,  not  so  much  for  my  own  justification  as  for 
your  instruction  and  encouragement;  that  you  may 
assent  to  my  commands  the  more  freely,  when  you 
shall  learn  that  they  are  reasonable;  that  you  may 
listen  so  much  the  more  attentively  in  regard  to 
things  which  pertain  to  you,  as  you  shall  find  me  the 
less  reprehensible  in  regard  to  things  which  pertain 
to  myself;  and  that  you  may  fear  so  much  the  more 
to  contemn  me,  as  you  shall  find  me  the  less  worthy 
of  reprehension. 

In  regard  to  the  preposterous  order  of  my  saluta- 
tion, as  you  call  it,  you  will  recognize,  by  giving  dili- 
gent attention  to  it,  that  I  have  acted  in  accordance 
with  your  own  sentiment.  For,  what  all  can  see,  you 
have  yourself  said,  that  when  we  write  to  superiors 
their  names  must  come  first.  You  know  that  you  be- 
came my  superior,  and  that  you  began  to  be  my  mis- 
tress* from  the  time  when  you  were  made  the  spouse 
of  my  master,  according  to  the  words  of  St.  Jerome, 
writing  to  Eustochia :  "  This  is  the  reason  why  I 
write,  my  mistress  Eustochia.  Surely  I  ought  to 
call  the  spouse  of  my  master  my  mistress."  It  is  a 
happy  nuptial  exchange,  that  you,  at  first  the  wife  of 

*  Domina  mea  esse  ccepisti  It  is  hardly  necessary  to  say 
that  the  word  mistress  is  used  in  its  highest  sense. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOTSE.  187 

a  wretched  human  creature,  should  be  elevated  to  the 
couch  of  the  highest  king.  Neither  is  the  privilege 
of  this  honor  extended  to  your  former  husband  alone, 
but  to  all  other  servants  of  the  same  king.  Be  not 
astonished,  therefore,  if  I  commend  myself  to  you  as, 
living  or  dead,  the  subject  of  your  prayers  ;  for  it  is 
every  where  admitted  that  the  intercession  of  a  spouse 
with  her  lord  is  more  powerful  than  that  of  a  servant, 
and  that  the  voice  of  a  mistress  has  more  authority 
than  that  of  a  slave. 

As  the  model  of  these,  the  queen  and  spouse  of 
the  Sovereign  King  is  described  with  care  in  these 
words  of  the  Psalmist :  "  Upon  thy  right  hand  did 
stand  the  queen,  in  gold  of  Ophir."  In  other  words, 
she  remains  familiarly  by  her  spouse,  and  walks  side 
by  side  with  him,  whilst  all  others  keep  far  away,  or 
follow  at  a  respectful  distance.  Filled  with  the  sen- 
timent of  her  glory  and  her  prerogative,  the  spouse 
in  Canticles  exultingly  says  :  "  I  am  black,  but  comely, 
0  ye  daughters  of  Jerusalem."  And  again:  "  Look 
not  upon  me  because  I  am  black,  because  the  sun 
hath  looked  upon  me." 

It  is  true  that  these  words  describe  in  general  the 
contemplative  soul,  which  is  specially  named  the 
spouse  of  Christ,  yet  they  pertain  still  more  expressly 
to  you,  as  the  habit  which  you  wear  proves. 

Surely  the  exterior  garment  of  black,  or  coarser 
material,  like  the  mourning  habit  of  good  widows,  who 


188  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

bewail  their  deceased  husbands  whom  they  loved, 
shows  that  you,  according  to  the  Apostle,  are  truly 
widowed  and  desolate  in  this  world,  and  ought  to  be 
supported  from  the  revenues  of  the  church.  The 
grief  of  those  widows,  on  account  of  the  death  of 
their  Lord,  is  commemorated  in  the  Scripture,  where 
they  are  described  as  sitting  by  the  sepulchre  and 
weeping. 

The  Ethiopian  is  black,  and  so  far  as  the  exterior 
is  concerned,  appears  to  other  women  deformed ;  nev- 
ertheless, she  does  not  yield  to  them  in  interior  beau- 
ties, but  in  most  respects  is  more  beautiful  and  whiter.* 

*  Habet  autem  ^Ethiopissa  exteriorem  in  carne  nigredinem, 
et  quantum  ad  exteriora  pertinet,  caeteris  apparet  ferainis  de- 
formior;  cum  non  sit  tamen  in  interioribus  dispar,  sed  in 
plerisque  etiam  formosior,  atque  candidior,  sicut  in  ossibus 
seu  dentibus.  Quorum  videlicet  dentium  candor  in  ipso  etiam 
commendatur  sponso,  cum  dicitur:  "Et  dentes  ejuslacte  can- 
didores." 

Nigra  itaque  in  exterioribus,  sed  formosa  in  interioribus 
est;  quia  in  hac  vita  crebris  adversitatum  tribulatiouibus 
corporaliter  afflicta  quasi  in  carne  nigrescit  exterius,  juxtd 
illud  Apostoli :  "  Omnes  qui  volunt  pie  vivere  in  Christo  tri- 
bulationem  patientur."  Sicut  enim  candido  prosperum,  ita 
non  incongrue  nigro  designatur  adversum.  Intus  autem, 
quasi  in  ossibus,  candet,  quia  in  virtutibus  ejus  anima  pollet, 
sicut  scriptum  est :  "  Omnis  gloria  ejus  filise  regis  ab  intus." 
Ossa  quippe,  qua?  interiora  sunt,  exteriori  oarne  circuindata, 
et  ipsius  carnis,  quam  gerunt,  vel  sustentant,  robur  ac  fortitu- 
do.  sunt,  ben6  auimam  exprimunt,  quae  carnem  ipsam,  cui 
inest,  vivificat,  sustentat,  movet,  atque  regit,  atque  ei  omnem 
valetudinem  ministrat.  Cujus  quidem  est  candor,  sive  decor, 
ipsse,  quibus  adornatur,  virtutes.  Xigra  quoque  est  in  exte- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  189 

Indeed  this  blackness,  the  effect  of  corporeal 
tribulations,  easily  detaches  the  minds  of  the  faithful 
from  the  love  of  mundane  things,  and  elevates  them 

rioribus,  quia  dum  in  hac  perigrinatione  adhuc  exnlat,  vilem 
et  abjectam  se  tenet  in  hac  vita;  ut  in  ilia  sublimentur,  qure 
est  abscondita  cum  Christo  in  Deo,  patriam  jam  adepta.  Sic 
vero  earn  sol  verus  decolorat,  quia  coelestis  amor  sponsi  earn 
sic  humiliat,  vel  tribulationibus  cruciat ;  ne  earn  scilicet  pros- 
peritas  extollat.  Decolorat  earn  sic,  id  est  dissimilem  earn  a 
caeteris  facit,  quae  terrenis  inhiant,  et  saeculi  quaerunt  gloriam ; 
ut  sic  ipsa  ver&  lilium  convallium  per  humilitatem  efficiatur: 
non  lilium  quidem  montium,  sicut  illae  videlicet  fatu«  vir- 
gines,  quae  de  munditia  carnis,  vel  abstinenti£  exteriore,  apud 
se  intumescentes,  aestu  tentationum  aruerunt.  Bene  autem 
filias  Hierusalem,  id  est,  imperfectiores  alloquens  fideles,  qui 
filiarum  potius,  quam  filiorum  nomine  digni  sunt,  dicit :  "  No- 
lite  me  considerare  qu6d  fusca  sim,  quia  decoloravit  me  sol." 
Ac  si  apertius  dicat :  Quod  sic  me  humilio,  vel  tam  viriliter 
adversitates  sustineo,  non  est  mesB  virtutis,  sed  ejus  gratiae 
cui  deservio. 

AHter  solent  haeretici,  vel  hypocritae,  quantum  ad  faciem 
hominum  spectat,  spe  terrenae  gloriae  sese  vehemeuter  humil- 
iare,  vel  multa  inutiliter  tolerare.  De  quorum  hujusmodi 
abjectione,  vel  tribulatione,  quam  sustinent,  vehementer  mi- 
randum  est ;  cum  sint  omnibus  miserabiliores  hominibus,  qui 
nee  prsesentis  vitae  bonis,  nee  futuree  fruuntur.  Hoc  itaque 
sponsa  diligenter  considerans  dicit:  "Nolite  mirari  cur  id 
faciam."  Sed  de  illis  mirandum  est,  qui  inutiliter  terrenaa 
laudis  desiderio  asstuantes  terrenis  se  privant  commodis,  tam 
hie  quam  in  futuro  miseri.  Qualis  quidem  fatuarum  virgi- 
num  continentia  est,  quaa  4  janua  sunt  exclusae. 

Bene"  etiam,  quia  nigra  est,  ut  diximus,  et  formosa,  dilec- 
tam,  et  introductam  se  dicit  in  cubiculum  regis,  id  est,  in  se- 
creturn  vel  quietem  contemplationis,  et  lectulum  ilium,  de 


190  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

to  the  desires  of  eternal  life,  and  frequently  draws 
them  from  the  tumultuous  life  of  the  world  to  the  se- 
cret of  contemplation.  This  is  what  happened  to 
Paul  at  the  beginning  of  that  kind  of  life  which  we 
have  embraced,  that  is,  the  monastic  life,  as  St.  Je- 
rome writes.  This  poverty  of  habit  seeks  solitude 
rather  than  the  world,  and  is  the  surest  safeguard  of 
that  denial  of  and  that  retreat  from  the  world,  which 
most  especially  become  our  profession.  For  rich  dress, 
most  of  all  things,  excites  us  to  appear  in  public, 
which  is  sought  by  no  one  except  for  the  gratification 
of  vanity,  and  the  pomp  of  the  world,  as  St.  Gregory 
has  shown  in  these  words  :  "  No  one  thinks  of  adorn- 

quo  eadem  alibi  dicit:  "In  lectulo  meo  per  noctes  quaesivi 
quein  diligit  anima  mea."  Ipsa  quipp6  nigrediuis  deformitas 
occultum  potius  quam  manifestum,  et  secretum  magis  quam 
publicum  amat.  Et  quae  talis  eat  uxor,  secreta  potius  viri 
gaudia  quam  manifesta  desiderat,  et  in  lecto  magis  vult 
eentiri  quam  in  mensa  videri.  Et  frequenter  accidit,  ut  nig- 
rarum  caro  feminarum,  quanto  est  in  aspectu  deformior,  tanto 
sit  in  tactu  suavior:  atque  ide6  earum  voluptas  secretis  gau- 
diis  quam  publicis  gratior  sit  et  convenientior,  et  earum  viri, 
ut  illis  oblectentur,  magis  eas  in  cubiculum  introducunt,  quam 
ad  publicum  educunt. 

Secundum  quam  quidem  metaphoram  bene  spiritualis 
sponsa  cum  prsemisisset :  "  Xigra  sum,  sed  forrnosa,"  statim 
adjunxit:  "  Ideo  dilexit  me  rex,  et  introduxit  me  in  cubicu- 
lum suum,"  singula  videlicet  singulis  reddens.  Hoc  est,  quia 
formoso,  dilexit,  quia  nigra,  introduxit.  Formosa,  ut  dixi,  intus 
virtutibus  quas  diligit  sponsus :  nigra  exterius  corporalium 
tribulationum  adversitatibus. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  191 

ing  himself  in  a  solitary  place,  but  where  he  can  be 
seen."  But  the  chamber  of  which  the  bride  speaks, 
is  that  to  which  the  spouse  himself  invites  us  for 
prayer,  as  this  passage  from  the  Gospel  testifies : 
"  But  thou,  when  thou  prayest,  enter  into  thy  closet, 
and  when  thou  hast  shut  thy  door,  pray  to  thy  Father 
which  is  in  secret."  As  if  he  had  said:  not  in  the 
highways  and  in  public  places,  like  the  hypocrites. 
He  calls  the  closet  a  place  secret  from  the  tumult 
and  observation  of  the  world,  where  it  is  possible  to 
pray  more  quietly  and  more  purely.  Such  are 
the  secret  places  of  monastic  solitudes,  where  we 
are  commanded  to  shut  the  door,  that  is,  to  obstruct 
every  passage,  lest  for  some  reason  the  purity  of 
prayer  be  obstructed,  and  the  eye  trespass  upon 
the  unhappy  soul.  We  are  grieved  to  see  still, 
among  the  people  of  our  habit,  so  many  despisers 
of  this  counsel,  or  rather  of  this  divine  precept, 
who,  when  they  are  celebrating  the  divine  offices,  the 
choirs  and  chancels  being  thrown  open,  impudently 
present  themselves  before  the  faces  of  women  as  well 
as  men,  and  especially  when  in  the  solemn  ceremonies 
they  degrade  the  precious  ornaments  of  the  priest- 
hood by  engaging  in  rivalry  with  men  of  the  world  to 
whom  they  show  themselves.  In  their  opinion  the 
festival  is  so  much  the  more  beautiful,  as  it  is  the 
richer  in  external  ornament,  and  the  more  sumptuous. 
In  regard  to  their  blindness,  which  is  so  deplorable 


192  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

and  so  contrary  to  the  religion  of  Christ's  poor,  it  is 
better  to  pass  over  it  in  silence,  since  it  would  be  im- 
possible to  speak  of  it  without  shame.  Always  juda- 
izing,  they  follow  their  own  habit  as  a  rule,  and  make 
the  word  of  God  a  dead  letter  by  their  traditions,  for 
they  conform  to  custom  instead  of  duty.  Neverthe- 
less, as  St.  Augustine  remembers,  the  Lord  has  said  : 
"  I  am  Truth,"  and  not,  "  I  am  custom."  To  their 
prayers,  those  which  they  make  with  open  door,  who- 
ever wishes,  commends  himself.  But  you,  who  have 
been  introduced  by  himself  into  the  chamber  of  the 
celestial  king,  and  are  quiet  in  his  spiritual  embraces, 
the  door  being  always  shut, — you  are  wholly  devoted 
to  him.  As  you  adhere  the  more  closely  to  him,  and 
as  the  Apostle  says :  "  He  that  is  joined  unto  the 
Lord  is  one  spirit,"  I  have  the  more  confidence  in 
the  purity  and  efficacy  of  your  prayer,  and  the  more 
ardently  solicit  your  aid.  I  trust  that  the  dearness 
of  our  mutual  affection  will  increase  the  fervor  of 
your  petitions  in  my  behalf. 

As  to  the  pain  which  I  have  given  you  by  men- 
tioning the  danger  which  threatens  me,  and  the  death 
which  I  fear,  I  have  in  that  only  answered  your  de- 
mand, ever  your  prayer.  The  following  are  the  very 
words  of  the  first  letter  which  you  sent : 

"  In  the  name  of  Christ,  who  hitherto  has  pro- 
tected you  for  his  service,  whose  humble  servants  we 
are  and  thine,  we  beseech  you  to  write  us  frequently, 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  193 

informing  us  by  what  perils  you  are  surrounded ;  since 
we  alone  remain  to  you,  to  participate  in  your  grief  or 
your  joy.  Those  who  condole  with  us  usually  afford 
some  consolation  to  the  sorrowing,  and  a  burden  laid 
upon  several  is  more  easily  borne,  or  seems  more  light." 

Why  then  do  you  reproach  me  for  having  made 
you  participate  in  my  anxiety,  when  you  have  com- 
pelled me  to  do  it  by  your  supplications  ?  In  view 
of  this  desperate  life  which,  with  torture,  I  am  living, 
does  it  become  you  to  rejoice  ?  Do  you  wish  to  par- 
ticipate in  my  joy  only,  and  not  in  my  grief?  Do 
you  wish  to  rejoice  with  the  rejoicing,  and  not  to 
weep  with  the  weeping  ?  There  is  no  greater  differ- 
ence between  true  and  false  friends  than  this,  that 
the  former  are  faithful  in  adversity,  while  the  latter 
remain  only  so  long  as  prosperity  lasts.  Leave  off 
your  reproaches,  then,  I  beseech  you,  and  suppress 
these  complaints  that  a_re  wholly  foreign  to  the  heart 
of  charity. 

Or  if  you  are  still  pained  in  this  respect,  you 
must  consider  that,  placed  in  such  imminent  peril, 
and  in  daily  despair  of  my  life,  it  behooves  me  to  be 
solicitous  in  regard  to  the  safety  of  my  soul,  and  to 
provide  for  it,  while  it  is  still  permitted.  If  you  love 
me  truly,  you  will  not  complain  of  this  precaution. 
And  if  you  have  any  hope  of  divine  mercy  toward 
me,  you  should  even  desire  that  I  may  be  freed  from 

the  miseries  of  this  life,  which,  as  you  see,  are  insup- 
9 


194  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

portable.  You  know  well,  that  whosoever  should  free 
me  from  this  life,  would  put  an  end  to  my  torments. 
What  pains  may  await  me  hereafter  is  uncertain,  but 
from  how  great  pains  I  should  be  delivered  is  certain. 

The  end  of  a  wretched  life  is  always  sweet,  and 
those  who  suffer  with  others  in  their  misfortunes,  and 
condole  with  them  in  their  sorrows,  desire  that  these 
misfortunes  and  sorrows  may  be  terminated,  and  even 
to  their  own  hurt,  if  they  sincerely  love  those  whom 
they  see  in  trouble,  and  they  are  not  mindful  of  an 
event  that  brings  grief  to  themselves  if  it  brings 
deliverance  to  their  friends.  So  a  mother  who  sees 
her  child  wasting  away  with  a  painful  and  incurable 
disease,  desires  that  death  may  come  to  terminate  the 
suffering  which  she  cannot  bear  to  look  upon,  and  pre- 
fers that  it  should  die  rather  than  be  the  companion 
of  misery.  And  whoever  is  greatly  delighted  with 
the  presence  of  a  friend,  nevertheless  rather  wishes 
that  he  should  be  absent  and  happy,  than  present  and 
miserable,  for,  not  being  able  to  remedy  his  pains,  he 
cannot  bear  the  sight  of  them. 

It  is  not  permitted  you  to  enjoy  my  presence,  even 
in  misery.  And  when  my  presence  would  be  useless 
to  you  for  any  purposes  of  pleasure,  I  do  not  see  why 
you  should  prefer  for  me  a  most  miserable  life  to  a 
happier  death.  If  you  desire  that  my  miseries  should 
be  prolonged  for  your  own  interest,  you  are  evidently 
my  enemy  rather  than  my  friend.  If  you  shrink 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  195 

from  seeming  to  be  my  enemy,  I  pray  you,  as  I  have 
already  said,  desist  from  your  complaints. 

But  approve  the  praise  which  you  reprobate ;  for 
in  this  very  thing  you  show  yourself  more  worthy  of 
it ;  for  it  is  written :  "He  that  shall  humble  himself, 
shall  be  exalted."  And  Heaven  grant  that  your 
thought  may  accord  with  what  you  have  written.  If 
such  were  your  real  sentiments,  your  humility  is  true, 
and  will  not  vanish  before  my  words.  But  take  care, 
I  beseech  you,  that  you  do  not  seek  praise  by  seem- 
ing to  shun  it,  and  that  you  do  not  reprobate  that 
with  your  lips  which  in  heart  you  desire.  In  this  re- 
gard, St.  Jerome  writes  thus  to  the  virgin  Eustochia  : 
"  We  yield  ourselves  freely  to  our  adulators,  and  al- 
though we  reply  that  we  are  undeserving,  and  blush, 
nevertheless  the  soul  within  rejoices  in  praise." 
Such  a  one  Virgil  describes  in  the  lascivious  Galathea, 
who  sought  the  pleasure  that  she  desired  by  appearing 
to  fly,  and  incited  her  lover  the  more  toward  herself 
by  feigning  a  repulse : 

"Et  fugit  ad  salices,  et  se  crepit  ante  videri." 

Flying,  she  desires  to  be  seen  before  she  con- 
ceals herself,  for  by  this  flight  she  is  the  more  sure 
of  obtaining  the  caresses  of  the  youth,  which  she 
seems  to  shun.  So  when  we  appear  to  shun  the  praise 
of  men,  we  provoke  it  the  more,  and  when  we  pretend 
to  wish  to  conceal  ourselves  that  no  one  may  see  in  us 


196  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

any  thing  to  praise,  we  excite  the  more  the  praises  of 
those  who  are  not  wary,  for  thereby  we  seem  the  more 
worthy  of  praise. 

And  these  things  I  speak,  because  they  frequently 
happen,  not  because  I  suspect  any  such  thing  in  you, 
for  I  do  not  doubt  your  humility ;  but  I  wish  to  have 
you  shun  even  these  words,  lest  you  may  seem  to 
those  who  do  not  know  you  to  seek  glory,  as  St.  Je- 
rome says,  by  shunning  it.  Never  will  my  praise  in- 
flate you,  but  will  always  incite  you  to  better  things, 
and  your  zeal  for  the  attainment  of  the  virtues  for 
which  I  praise  you,  will  be  earnest  in  proportion  to 
your  desire  of  pleasing  me.  My  praise  is  not  to  you 
a  testimony  of  religion,  that  you  should  thereby  be 
inspired  with  pride.  No  one  must  be  judged  by  the 
panegyrics  of  friends,  nor  by  the  vituperations  of  en- 
emies. 

Finally,  it  remains  to  speak  to  you  of  your  old 
and  perpetual  complaint,  of  your  presuming  to  accuse 
God  on  account  of  the  mode  of  our  conversion,  in- 
stead of  wishing  to  glorify  him,  as  it  is  just.  I  be- 
lieved that  the  bitterness  of  your  soul  had  vanished, 
on  account  of  the  striking  proofs  of  the  divine  mercy 
towards  us.  The  more  dangerous  this  is  to  you — it 
consumes  the  body  as  well  as  the  soul — the  more  it 
excites  my  pity  and  my  regret.  If,  as  you  profess, 
you  study  above  all  thing  to  please  me,  then,  that  you 
may  not  torture  me,  that  you  may  please  me  supreme- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  197 

ly,  reject  that  biterness  from  your  heart.  With  this 
you  cannot  please  me,  nor  can  you  with  me  arrive  at 
beatitude.  Could  you  bear  that  I  should  go  thither 
without  you — you  who  profess  your  willingness  to  fol- 
low me  even  to  perdition  ?  But  seek  religion  for  this 
one  thing  at  least,  that  you  may  not  be  separated 
from  me  when,  as  you  believe,  I  am  hastening  to  God ; 
and  that  you  may  seek  it  the  more  earnestly,  call  to 
mind  how  blessed  it  will  be  for  us  to  set  out  together, 
and  how  much  the  sweetness  of  our  companionship 
will  add  to  our  felicity.  Think  of  what  you  have  said ; 
remember  what  you  have  written,  that  in  the  manner 
of  our  conversion  God  has  showed  himself,  as  it  is 
manifest,  so  much  the  more  propitious  to  me,  as  he  is 
believed  to  have  been  the  more  averse.  But  in  this 
his  holy  will  is  pleasing  to  me,  because  it  is  to  me 
most  salutary,  and  to  you  as  well  as  to  me,  if  the  ex- 
cess of  your  grief  admit  a  reasonable  judgment.  Do 
not  complain  that  you  are  the  cause  of  so  great  a 
good,  nor  doubt  that  God  predestined  you  to  be  the 
source  of  it.  Weep  not  on  account  of  my  sufferings, 
for  it  would  also  be  necessary  for  you  to  weep  on  ac- 
count of  the  sufferings  of  the  martyrs  and  the  death 
of  the  Lord.  Could  you  more  easily  bear  what  has 
happened  to  me,  and  would  it  offend  you  less,  if  it 
had  justly  happened  to  me  ?  No,  surely,  for  then  it 
would  be  the  more  ignominious  for  me,  and  the  more 
glorious  for  my  enemies,  since  justice  would  procure 


198  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

praise  for  them,  and  my  fault  contempt  for  me.  No 
one  would  then  accuse  them  for  their  act ;  no  one 
would  be  moved  with  pity  for  me. 

But,  to  assuage  the  bitterness  of  your  grief,  I 
could  show  the  justice  as  well  as  the  utility  of  what  has 
happened  to  us,  and  I  could  show  you  that  God  was 
more  right  in  punishing  us  after  marriage  than  when  we 
were  living  an  irregular  life.* 

You  also  know  that,  when  I  transferred  you  into 
my  native  country,  you  were  clothed  in  the  sacred 

*  "Ut  tamen  et  hoc  modo  hujus  amaritudinem  doloria  le- 
niamus,  tarn  juste  quam  utiliter  id  monstrabimus  nobis  acci- 
disse,  et  rectius  in  conjugates  quam  in  fornicantes  ultura 
Deum  fuisse.  Nosti  post  nostri  confederation  em  conjugii,  cum 
Argenteoli  cum  sanctimonialibus  in  claustro  conversabaris, 
me  die  quddam  privatim  ad  te  visitandam  venisse,  et  quid  ibi 
tecum  meae  libidinis  egerit  intemperantia  in  quadam  etiam 
parte  ipsius  refectorii,  cum  quo  alias  diverteremus,  non  hab- 
eremus.  Nosti,  inquam,  id  impudentissime'  tune  actum  esse 
in  tarn  reverendo  loco  et  summa?  Virgin!  consecrate.  Quod, 
etsi  alia  cessent  flagitia,  multo  graviore  dignum  sit  ultione. 
Quid  pristinas  fornicationes  et  impudentissimas  referam  pol- 
lutiones  quse  conjugium  pnecesserunt  ?  Quid  summam  denique 
proditionem  meam,  qua  de  te  ipsa  tuum,  cum  quo  assidue 
in  ejus  domo  convivebam,  avunculura  tarn  turpiter  seduxi? 
Quis  me  ab  eo  jnst6  prodi  non  censeat,  quern  tarn  impudenter 
ante  ipse  prodideram  ?  Putas  ad  tantorum  criminum  ultio- 
nem  momentaneum  illius  plagse  dolorem  sufficere  ?  Imo  tantis 
malis  tantum  debitum  esse  commodum?  Quam  plagam  di- 
viiui'  sufficere  justitiaB  credis  ad  tantam  contaminationem,  ut 
diximus,  sacerrimi  loci  suse  matris?  Cert&  nisi  vehementer 
erro,  non  tarn  ilia  saluberrima  plaga  in  ultionem  horuni  con- 
versa  est,  quam  qua?  hodid  indesiuenter  sustineo. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  199 


habit,  that  you  pretended  to  be  a  nun,  and  by  such  a 
pretence  profaned  the  sacred  institution  to  which  you 
now  belong.  Judge  thence  how  properly  the  divine 
justice,  or  rather  the  divine  grace,  has  drawn  you  in 
spite  of  yourself  into  that  religious  state,  of  which  you 
did  not  fear  to  make  a  jest ;  it  has  imposed  on  you  as 
a  punishment  that  very  habit  which  you  daringly  as- 
sumed, in  order  that  the  falsehood  of  pretending  to  be 
a  nun  might  be  remedied  by  the  truth  of  being  a  nun 
in  reality. 

If  to  the  divine  justice  you  join  the  consideration 
of  our  interest,  you  will  acknowledge  God  did  every 
thing  for  the  sake  of  our  good,  and  not  for  the  sake 
of  his  own  vengeance.  See,  dearest,  see  how  with  the 
strong  nets  of  his  mercy  the  Lord  has  taken  us  from 
the  depths  of  that  sea  so  perilous,  from  what  a  devour- 
ing Charybdis  he  has  delivered  his  creatures  in  distress, 
already  wrecked  in  the  whirlpool,  and  contending 
against  the  saving  hand,  so  that  either  of  us  might  ut- 
ter that  cry  of  wonder  and  love:  "  The  Lord  was  soli- 
citous concerning  me  ! "  Think  and  reflect  upon  the 
dangers  which  surrounded  us,  and  whence  the  Lord 
snatched  us  :  and  unceasingly  with  hymns  of  gratitude 
recount  how  much  the  Lord  has  done  for  our  souls  ; 
and  console  by  our  example  the  transgressors  who 
despair  of  his  mercy,  showing  all  what  can  be  done 
by  penitence  and  prayer,  when  so  many  benefits 
have  been  conferred  on  the  impenitent  and  the  hard- 


200  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

eried.  Observe  the  most  exalted  counsel  of  the  Lord 
in  regard  to  us,  and  how  he  tempered  his  justice  with 
mercy ;  how  prudently  he  made  use  of  evils,  and  di- 
vinely overcame  impiety,  for,  by  the  just  infliction  of 
a  bodily  punishment  upon  me,  he  saved  two  souls. 
Compare  our  danger  and  the  manner  of  our  deliver- 
ance. Compare  the  disease  and  the  remedy.  Behold 
the  cause  of  so  much  indulgence,  and  admire  the  pity 
and  the  love  of  God.* 

*  Kosti  quantis  turpitudinibus  immoderata  mea  libido 
corpora  nostra  addixerat,  ut  nulla  honestatis  vel  Dei  reveren- 
tia  in  ipsis  etiam  diebus  Dominic®  passionis,  vel  quantarum- 
cumque  solemnitatum  ab  hujus  luti  volutabro  me  revocaret. 
Sed  et  te  nolentem,  et  prout  poteras  reluctantem  et  dissua- 
dentem,  qiue  natura  iulirmior  eras,  ssepius  minis  ac  flagellis 
ad  consensum  trahebam.  Tanto  enim  tibi  concupiscentia-  ar- 
dore  copulatus  eram,  ut  miseras  illas  et  obscoenissimaa  volup- 
tates,  quas  etiam  nominare  confundimur,  tarn  Deo  quam  mihi 
ipsi  pra3ponerem :  nee  tarn  aliter  consulere  posse  divina 
videretur  dementia,  nisi  has  mihi  voluptates  sine  spe  ulla 
omnino  interdiceret. 

Unde  justissime  et  clementissime,  licet  cum  summa  tui 
avunculi  proditione,  ut  in  multis  crescerem,  parte  ilia  corporis 
sum  minutus,  in  qua  libidinis  regnum  erat,  et  tota  hujus  con- 
cupiscentiai  causa  consistebat:  ut  justie  illud  p^ccteretur 
membrum,  quod  in  nobis  commiserat  totum,  et  expiaret  pa- 
tiendo  quod  deliquerat  oblectando:  et  ab  his  me  spurcitiis, 
quibus  me  totum  quasi  luto  immerseram,  tarn  mente  quam 
corpore  circumcideret :  et  tant6  sacris  etiam  altnribus 
idoniorem  efficeret,  quanto  me  nulla  hinc  amplius  carnaiium, 
contagia  pollutionum  revocarent.  Quam  clementer  etiam  in 
eo  tantum  me  pati  voluit  mernbro,  cujus  privatio  et  animse 
saluti  consuleret,  et  corpus  non  deturparet,  nee  ullam  offici- 
orum  ministrationem  pra?pediret  ;  imo  ad  omnia  qute  honest^ 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  201 

I  merit  death,  and  God  gives  me  life.     I  am  call- 
ed, and  I  resist.     I  persist  in  my  crimes,  and  unwill- 

geruntur,  tanto  me  promptiorem  efficeret,  quanto  ab  hoc  con- 
cupiscentue  jugo  maximo  amplius  liberaret.  Cum  itaque 
membris  his  vilissimis,  qua3  pro  summae  turpitudinis  exercito 
pudenda  vocantur,  nee  proprium  sustinet  nomen,  me  divina 
Gratia  mundavit,  potius  quam  privavit,  quid  aliud  egit  quam 
ad  puritatem  munditise  conservandam  sordida  removit  et 
vitia  ? 

Hanc  qnidem  mnnditiae  puritatem  nonnullos  sapientium 
vehementissime  appetentes  inferre  etiam  sibi  manum  audivi- 
mus,  ut  hoc  a  se  penitus  removerent  concupiscence  flagitium, 
pro  quo  etiam  stimulo  carnis  auferendo  et  Apostolus  perhibetur 
Dominum  rogasse,  nee  exauditum  esse.  In  exemplo  est  ille  mag- 
nus  christianorum  philosophus  Origenes,  qui,  ut  in  se  penitus 
incendium  exstingueret,  manus  sibi  inferre  veritus  non  est:  ac 
si  illos  ad  litteram  vere  beatos  intelligeret,  qui  seipsos  prop- 
ter  regnum  coelorum  castraverunt,  et  tales  illud  veraciter  im- 
plere  crederet,  quod  de  membris  scandalizantibus  nobis 
prsecipit  Dominus,  ut  ea  scilicet  a  nobis  abscindamus  et  proji- 
ciamus,  et  quasi  illam  Isaise  prophetiam  ad  historiam  magis 
quam  ad  mysterium  duceret,  per  quam  caeteris  fidelibus 
eunuchos  Dominus  prafert,  dicens:  "Eunuchi  si  custodierint 
sabbata  mea,  et  elegerint  qua3  volui,  dabo  eis  in  domo  mea  et 
in  muris  meis  locum,  et  nomen  melius  a  filiis  et  filiabus.  No- 
men  sempiternum  dabo  eis,  quod  non  peribit."  Culpam  ta- 
men  non  modicam  Origenes'  incurrit,  dum  per  poenam  cor- 
poris  remedium  culpa3  quserit. 

Zelum  quippfe  Dei  habens,  sed  non  secundtim  ecientiam, 
homicidi  incurrit  reatum  inferendo  sibi  manum.  Suggestions 
diabolica,  vel  errore  maximo,  id  ab  ipso  constat  esse  factum, 
quod  miseratione  Dei,  in  me  est  ab  alio  perpetratum.  Culpam 
evito,  non  incurro.  Mortem  mereor,  et  vitam  assequor.  Yo- 
cor,  et  reluctor.  Insto  criminibus,  et  ad  veniam  trahor  invi- 
tus.  Orat  Apostolus,  nee  exauditur.  Precibus  instat,  neo 
impetrat.  Verfe  Dominus  sollicitus  est  mei.  Vadam  igitur 
et  narrabo  quanta  fecit  Dominus  anima3  mea3. 


202  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

ingly  am  driven  to  pardon.  The  Apostle  prays,  and 
is  not  heard  ;  he  persists  in  prayer  and  does  not  pre- 
vail. Truly  the  Lord  is  solicitous  concerning  me.  I 
will  go  therefore  and  proclaim  how  much  the  Lord  has 
done  for  my  soul. 

Come  and  join  me ;  be  my  inseparable  companion 
in  one  act  of  grace,  since  you  have  participated  with 
me  in  the  fault  and  in  the  pardon.  For  the  Lord  is 
not  unmindful  of  your  safety ;  yes,  he  is  most  especial- 
ly mindful  of  you,  for  he  has  clearly  foreordained  that 
you  should  be  his  by  a  certain  divine  presage,  since 
he  designated  you  as  Heloise  from  his  own  name  which 
is  Elohim. 

He,  I  say,  has  mercifully  ordered  that  by  one  of  us 
both  should  be  saved,  when  the  devil  was  trying  to  de- 
stroy us  both  by  one.  A  little  while  before  the  ca- 
tastrophe, the  indissoluble  law  of  the  nuptial  sacrament 
had  bound  us  together,  and  while  I  desired  to  retain 
you  always  to  myself, — you  loved  by  me  beyond  mea- 
sure,— the  Lord  was  preparing  the  circumstances 
which  should  turn  our  thoughts  toward  heaven. 

For  if  we  had  not  been  married,  my  retreat  from 
the  world,  or  the  counsel  of  your  relatives,  or  the  at- 
traction of  pleasure,  would  have  retained  you  in  the 
world.  Behold  how  much  the  Lord  has  been  mindful 
of  us,  as  if  he  had  reserved  us  for  some  great  purpose, 
as  if  he  had  been  indignant  or  grieved  that  those  tal- 
ents for  science  and  literature,  which  he  had  intrusted 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  203 

to  us  both,  were  not  used  exclusively  for  the  honor  of 
his  name ;  or  as  if  he  were  in  fear  in  regard  to  his  most 
unfaithful  servant,  as  it  is  written :  "  Women  cause 
even  the  wise  to  apostatize."  Of  this,  Solomon,  the 
wisest  of  men,  is  a  proof. 

Your  talent  of  prudence  indeed  brings  daily  in- 
crease to  the  Lord ;  already  to  the  Lord  you  have 
given  many  spiritual  daughters,  whilst  I  have  remain- 
ed fruitless,  and  have  labored  in  vain  among  the  chil- 
dren of  perdition.  0  what  a  terrible  misfortune ! 
What  a  lamentable  loss,  if,  given  up  to  the  impuri- 
ties of  carnal  pleasures,  you  should  bear  with  grief  a 
small  number  of  children  for  the  world,  instead  of 
bearing  with  joy  so  great  a  number  for  heaven.  You 
would  be  nothing  more  than  a  woman, — you  who  now 
transcend  even  men,  and  who  have  exchanged  the 
malediction  of  Eve  for  the  benediction  of  Mary. 
What  profanation  if  those  sacred  hands,  which  now 
are  employed  in  turning  the  holy  page,  were  condemn- 
ed to  the  vulgar  cares  which  are  the  lot  of  woman ! 

Be  no  longer  afflicted,  then,  my  dear  sister,  I  be- 
seech you ;  cease  to  accuse  a  father  who  corrects  us  so 
tenderly ;  attend  rather  to  what  is  written  :  "  Whom 
the  Lord  loveth,  he  chasteneth."  And  in  another 
place :  "  He  that  spareth  his  rod  hateth  his  son."  This 
is  transitory  and  not  eternal;  it  purifies  us,  and  does  not 
destroy. 

Take  courage,  listen  to  this  sovereign  word,  that 


204  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

comes  from  the  mouth  of  Truth  itself:  "In  your  pa- 
tience possess  ye  your  souls."  Hence  Solomon  has 
said  :  "  He  that  is  slow  to  anger  is  better  than  the 
mighty;  and  he  that  ruleth  his  spirit,  than  he  that 
taketh  a  city." 

Are  you  not  moved  to  tears  and  bitter  compassion, 
when  you  behold  the  only  Son  of  God  seized  by  the  most 
impious,  dragged  away,  mocked,  scourged,  buffeted, 
spit  upon,  crowned  with  thorns,  hung  upon  the  infa- 
mous cross  between  two  thieves,  finally  in  such  a  hor- 
rible and  execrable  manner  suffering  death,  for  your 
salvation  and  that  of  the  world?  Him,  my  sister,  who 
is  thy  spouse  and  the  spouse  of  the  whole  church, 
keep  continually  before  your  eyes,  and  in  your  heart. 
Gaze  upon  him  as  he  goes  to  his  crucifixion,  bearing 
his  own  cross.  Be  one  of  the  multitude,  one  of  the 
women,  who  were  beating  their  breasts  and  weeping, 
as  St.  Luke  narrates  in  these  words  :  "And  there  fol 
lowed  him  a  great  company  of  people,  and  of  women, 
which  also  bewailed  and  lamented  him."  He  turned 
towards  them  with  benignity,  and  mildly  predicted  to 
them  the  vengeance  that  should  follow  his  death,  and 
taught  them  how  to  guard  themselves  against  it. 
"  Daughters  of  Jerusalem,  weep  not  for  me,  but  weep 
for  yourselves,  and  your  children  ;  for  behold  the  days 
are  coming,  in  the  which  they  shall  say,  Blessed  are 
the  barren,  and  the  wombs  that  never  bore,  and  the 
paps  which  never  gave  suck.  Then  they  shall  begin 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  205 

to  say  to  the  mountains :  Fall  on  us ;  and  to  the 
hills :  Cover  us ;  for  if  they  do  these  things  in  a 
green  tree,  what  shall  be  done  in  the  dry?" 

Sympathize  with  him  who  freely  suffers  for  your 
redemption,  and  participate  with  him  in  the  pains  of 
the  cross  which  he  bears  for  you.  Approach  in  spirit 
his  sepulchre,  weep  and  mourn  with  the  holy  women, 
who,  as  I  have  already  said,  were  sitting  at  the 
sepulchre,  weeping  their  Lord.  Prepare  with  them 
perfumes  for  his  burial ;  but  let  them  be  better,  let 
them  be  spiritual,  instead  of  material;  for  such  he 
requires  of  you,  since  he  was  not  able  to  receive  them 
from  the  others.  Suffer  for  him,  then,  with  all  the  ar- 
dor of  your  zeal,  with  all  the  strength  of  your  devotion. 

The  Lord  himself,  by  the  mouth  of  Jeremiah,  ex- 
horts the  faithful  to  participate  in  his  sorrows :  "  Is 
it  nothing  to  you,  all  ye  who  pass  by  ?  Behold,  and 
see,  if  there  be  any  sorrow  like  unto  my  sorrow."  It 
is  as  if  he  should  say :  "  Is  there  a  death  worthy  of 
being  lamented  in  view  of  that  which  I  am  suffering, 
in  order  to  expiate  the  crime  of  others,  while  I  am 
myself  innocent?"  But  he  is  the  way  whereby  the 
faithful  may  return  from  exile  to  their  native  land. 

This  cross,  from  which  he  cries  out,  is  the  ladder 
that  he  has  erected  for  us.  Upon  this  the  only  Son 
of  God  was  slain, 'he  was  offered  as  a  sacrifice,  because 
he  was  willing.  Learn  to  suffer  with  him,  and  fulfil 
what  the  prophet  Jeremiah  predicted  concerning  de- 


206  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

voted  souls :  "  They  shall  mourn  as  for  the  death  of 
an  only  child,  and  they  shall  weep  for  him  as  it  is 
customary  to  weep  for  a  first-born." 

Behold,  my  sister,  what  profound  affliction  the 
friends  of  a  king  profess  for  the  loss  of  his  only  and 
first-born  son.  Look  upon  the  desolation  of  the 
family,  and  the  grief  of  the  whole  court ;  but  it  is  the 
spouse  of  this  only  son  who  is  the  deepest  mourner, 
whose  grief  is  beyond  bounds. 

Such,  my  sister,  be  your  affliction,  such  be  your 
grief  for  the  death  of  that  spouse,  to  an  alliance  with 
whom  you  have  been  fortunately  elevated.  He  has 
purchased  you,  not  with  his  possessions,  but  with  him- 
self. With  his  own  blood  he  has  bought  you  and 
redeemed  you.  Behold  how  much  right  he  has  to 
you,  and  how  precious  you  are  in  his  sight. 

Thus  the  apostle,  comparing  the  value  of  his 
soul,  and  the  inestimable  price  of  the  sacrifice  which 
was  offered  for  its  salvation,  renders  homage  to 
the  grandeur  of  the  benefaction,  and  cries  out : 
"  God  forbid  that  I  should  glory,  save  in  the  cross 
of  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  by  whom  the  world 
is  crucified  unto  me,  and  I  unto  the  world."  You 
are  more  than  heaven,  more  than  earth,  since  the 
Creator  of  the  world  has  given  himself  for  your  ran- 
som. But  what  mysterious  treasure  has  he,  then, 
discovered  in  you — he  to  whom  nothing  is  necessary, 
if,  in  order  to  possess  you,  he  has  consented  to  all  the 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  207 

tortures  of  his  agony,  to  all  the  opprobrium  of  his 
punishment  ?  What  has  he  sought  in  you,  if  not 
yourself?  Behold  your  true  lover,  who  desires  only_ 
you,  and  not  what  belongs  to  you.  Behold  yourjtrue_ 
jriend,  who  said  in  dying  for  you :  "  Greater  love  hath 
no  manjhanjhigj  that  a  man  lay  down  his  life  for  his 
friends."  It  was  he,  and  not  I,  who  truly  loved  you. 
My  love,  which  drew  us  both  into  sin,  was  only  desire,* 
it  does  not  merit  the  name  of  love.  I  have,  you  say, 
suffered  for  you,  and  perhaps  it  is  true ;  but  I  have 
rather  suffered  by  you,  and  even  against  my  will ;  not 
for  the  love  of  you,  but  by  the  violence  that  was  done 
me ;  not  for  your  safety,  but  for  your  despair.  On 
the  contrary,  Christ  willingly,  and  for  your  salvation, 
suffered  for  you,  and  by  his  suffering  he  cures  all 
languor,  removes  all  passion.  Towards  him,  then, 
and  not  towards  me,  be  directed  all  your  devotion,  all 
your  compassion^  Grieve  on  account  of  the  injustice 
and  cruelty  that  befall  the  innocent ;  and  not  that  a 
just  vengeancejell  on  me,  for  it  is  rather  a  favor  for 
which  we  should  both  thank  Heaven 

You  are  unjust,  if  you  do  not  love  justice ;  and 
great  is  your  sin,  if  you  voluntarily  oppose  the  divine 
will,  and  reject  the  gifts  of  grace.  Bewail  your  Re- 
deemer, and  not  your  seducer, — him  who  has  served 
you,  and  not  him  who  ruined  you, — the  Lord  who 

*  Miseras  in  te  meas  volnptates  implebam,  et  hoc  erat 
totum  quod  amabam. 


208  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

died  for  you,  and  not  the  servant  who  still  lives,  and 
who  has  just  been  truly  delivered  from  death. 

Take  care  not  to  merit  the  reproach  by  which 
Pompey  silenced  the  complaints  of  Cornelia : 

....  Vivit  post  prselia  Magnus, 

Sed  fortuna  perit ;  quod  defies  illud  amastL* 

Submit,  my  sister,  submit,  I  beseech  you,  with 
patience  to  the  trials,  which  have  mercifully  befallen 
us.  It  is  the  rod  of  a  Father,  and  not  the  sword  of 
a  persecutor.  The  father  strikes  to  correct,  lest  the 
enemy  should  strike  to  kill.  He  wounds  to  prevent 
death,  and  not  to  cause  it.  He  wounds  the  body  and 
cures  the  soul.  He  ought  to  have  put  to  death,  and 
he  gives  life.  He  arrests  the  malady,  and  makes  the 
body  sound.  He  punishes  once,  not  to  punish  for  ever. 
By  the  wound  which  has  caused  one  to  suffer,  he  saves 
two  from  death.  Two  sin,  one  is  punished. 

This  indulgence  of  the  Lord  in  regard  to  us,  is  an 
effect  of  his  compassion  for  the  feebleness  of  your  sex, 
but  in  some  sort  it  was  your  due.  You  were  more 
infirm  by  nature,  but  stronger  in  continence,  and 
therefore  less  guilty.  I  thank  the  Lord,  who  has 
freed  you  from  punishment,  and  has  reserved  you  for 

*  "  Pompey  survives  the  battle,  but  his  fortune  has 
perished ;  what  you  deplore  you  loved." 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  209 

the  crown.*  Although  you  would  refuse  to  hear  it, 
and  would  hinder  me  from  saying  it,  nevertheless  it  is 
a  manifest  truth.  The  crown  is  the  reward  of  one  who 
strives  continually,  and  he  alone  will  obtain  it  who 
strives  to  the  end. 

There  is  indeed  no  crown  remaining  for  me,  for 
there  is  no  longer  any  cause  for  striving.!  Yet  if 
there  is  no  crown  laid  up  for  me,  I  still  suppose  it  a 
great  good  for  me  to  incur  no  penalty,  to  escape  eter- 
nal punishment  by  temporary  pain.  The  men  who 
abandon  themselves  to  the  passions  of  this  miserable 
life,  are  compared  in  Scripture  to  beasts. 

I  complain  the  less  that  my  merit  should  be  de- 
creased, while  I  am  certain  that  yours  is  increasing. 
We  are  indeed  one  in  Christ, — one  by  the  bond  of 
marriage.  Whatever  pertains  to  you,  I  do  not  regard 
as  foreign  to  myself;  but  Christ  is  yours,  because 
you  have  been  made  his  spouse.  And  now,  as  I 
mentioned  above,  you  hold  me  as  a  servant,  whom 
formerly  you  acknowledged  as  your  lord ;  but  a  ser- 
vant joined  to  you  by  spiritual  love,  rather  than  sub- 
jected to  you  by  fear.  Hence,  my  confidence  in  your 

*  Cum  me  un&  corporis  mei  passione  semel  ab  omni  sestu 
hujus  concupiscentiae,  in  qua  un&  totus  per  immoderatum  in- 
continentiam  occupatus  eram,  refrigeravit  ad  martyrii  coro- 
nam. 

\  Deest  materia  pugnse,  cui  ablatus  est  stimulus  concu- 
piscentise. 


210  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

intercession  is  great;  I  can  obtain  that  by  your 
prayer,  which  I  cannot  obtain  by  my  own ;  especially 
at  this  time,  when  a  multitude  of  cares  and  imminent 
dangers  distract  my  mind,  and  allow  no  quiet  mo- 
ments for  prayer.  I  am  far  from  imitating  that  mes- 
senger of  Candace,  queen  of  the  Ethiopians,  who 
went  from  so  great  a  distance  to  Jerusalem  to  adore 
God  in  his  temple.  To  him  on  his  return  the  Apostle 
Philip  was  sent  to  convert  him  to  the  faith, — of 
which  he  was  worthy,  on  account  of  his  prayer  and 
assiduous  reading  of  the  Scripture.  As  he  was  always 
occupied  during  his  journey,  the  divine  grace,  not- 
withstanding the  anathema  pronounced  against  riches 
and  idolaters,  permitted  that  he  should  fall  on  a  way 
that  would  furnish  the  Apostle  the  most  abundant 
means  to  work  his  conversion. 

That  nothing  may  impede  my  request,  or  hinder 
it  from  being  fulfilled,  I  hasten  to  send  you  a  prayer 
which  I  have  composed,  which  with  uplifted  hands 
you  will  offer  to  Heaven  for  us  both. 

PRAYER. 

"  0  God,  who,  from  the  very  beginning  of  the 
creation  of  man,  woman  having  been  formed  out  of 
the  side  of  man,  hast  sanctioned  the  great  sacra- 
ment'of  the  conjugal  union,  and  who,  by  thy  own 
birth,  and  by  thy  first  miracle,  hast  raised  it  to 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  211 

higher  honors,  and  hast  allowed  me,  even  in  my  frailty 
or  in  my  incontinence, — as  it  may  please  thee, — to 
partake  of  the  grace  of  this  sacrament ;  reject  not  the 
prayers  of  thy  handmaid,  which,  a  suppliant,  I  pour 
out  in  the  presence  of  thy  majesty  for  my  own  sinsj 
and  for  the  sins  of  him  who  is  dear  to  me.  Pardon, 
0  thou  who  art  most  benign, — who  art  benignity  it- 
self,— pardon  our  manifold  crimes,  and  let  the  multi- 
tude of  our  transgressions  be  swallowed  up  in  the 
immensity  of  thy  unspeakable  compassion.  Punish 
us  now,  I  beseech  thee,  for  we  are  guilty,  and  spare 
us  hereafter ;  punish  us  in  time,  that  we  may  not  be 
punished  in  eternity.  Use  against  thy  servants  the 
rod  of  correction,  and  not  the  sword  of  anger ;  chas- 
tise the  flesh,  but  save  our  souls.  Come  as  a  purifier, 
not  as  an  avenger ;  with  mercy,  rather  than  with  jus- 
tice ;  as  a  pitying  father,  not  as  a  severe  master. 

"  Try  us,  0  Lord,  and  measure  our  strength,  as  the 
prophet  requests,  when  he  beseeches  thee  to  examine 
his  power  of  resistance,  and  to  proportion  to  it  the 
temptation.  Through  the  blessed  Paul,  thou  hast 
promised  to  thy  faithful  ones  that  they  shall  not  be 
tempted  beyond  their  strength. 

"  When  it  pleased  thee,  0  Lord,  and  as  it  pleased 
thee,  thou  didst  join  us,  and  thou  didst  separate  us. 
Now,  0  Lord,  what  thou  hast  mercifully  begun,  mer- 
cifully complete.  And  whom  thou  hast  once  sepa- 
rated in  the  world,  eternally  join  together  for  thyself 


212  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

in  heaven,  0  thou,  who  art  our  hope,  our  portion, 
our  expectation,  our  consolation.  Blessed  be  thy 
name,  0  Lord,  for  evermore. " 

Farewell  in  Christ,  spouse  of  Christ;  in  Christ 
farewell,  and  in  Christ  live.     Amen. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  213 


XXVIII. 

LETTER  OF  HELOISE  TO  ABELARD. 

"  Yet  here  for  ever,  ever  must  I  stay ; 
Sad  proof  how  well  a  lover  can  obey  I 
Death,  only  death,  can  break  the  lasting  chain ; 
And  here,  e'en  then,  shall  my  cold  dust  remain, 
Here  all  its  frailties,  all  its  flames  resign, 
And  wait  till  'tis  no  sin  to  mix  with  thine.1' 

POPE'S  "  Eloiaa  to  Abelard? 

To  her  master, — his  servant. 

THAT  you  may  have  no  reason  for  accusing  me  of  dis- 
obedience, I  shall  check,  as  you  have  commanded, 
the  language  of  immoderate  grief.  I  will  try  to  sup- 
press, at  least  in  writing  to  you,  those  expressions  of 
weakness  and  sorrow  against  which  it  is  so  difficult, 
or  rather  impossible,  to  fortify  myself  in  an  interview. 
For  nothing  is  less  in  our  power  than  the  mind,  and 
this  we  are  rather  compelled  to  obey,  than  able  to 
command.  When  we  are  under  the  influence  of 
strong  emotions,  we  cannot  so  effectually  repress 


214  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

them,  that  they  may  not  be  exhibited  in  action,  and 
manifest  themselves  in  words,  which  are  the  ready 
signs  of  the  soul's  passions.  As  it  is  written  :  "  Out 
of  the  abundance  of  the  heart  the  mouth  speaketh." 
Therefore  I  shall  not  allow  my  hand  to  write  those 
things  which  I  could  not  prohibit  my  tongue  from  speak- 
ing. Oh  that  my  heart  were  as  able  to  command  its 
grief,  as  my  hand  is  to  command  its  writing  ! 

Some  solace  you  are  able  to  confer,  although  you 
cannot  wholly  cure  my  grief.  One  thought  drives 
out  another,  and  the  mind,  when  new  objects  engage 
the  attention,  is  forced  to  abandon  or  to  suspend  its 
haunting  memories.  A  thought  has  so  much  the 
more  power  to  occupy  the  mind,  and  turn  it  aside 
from  other  things,  as  its  object  is  more  honorable, 
and  seems  to  us  more  essential. 

We  supplicate  you,  therefore,  all  of  us,  the  ser- 
vants of  Christ,  and  your  children  in  Christ, — we 
supplicate  you  to  accord  to  us,  in  your  paternal  good- 
ness, two  things,  which  seem  to  us  absolutely  neces- 
sary • — First,  to  teach  us  the  origin  of  the  female 
monastic  institution,  the  rank  and  authority  of  our 
profession ;  Second,  to  frame  and  send  to  us  a  rule, 
appropriate  to  our  sex,  — —  * 

*  Not  another  word  of  these  letters  will  we  translate, 
fieloise  is  here  leaving  herself,  and  nothing  can  tempt  us  to 
follow  her.  She  discourses  with  great  learning  about  some- 
thing foreign  to  her  own  heart ;  but,  as  dearly  as  we  love 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  215 

her,  we  shall  not  allow  her,  at  the  command  of  Abelard,  to 
fling  monastic  dust  in  our  eyes.  Her  warm,  love-laden  heart, 
is  beating  thick  and  fast ;  her  soul-lit  eyes  are  swimming  in 
tears ; — her  spirit  does  not  obey,  if  her  hand  does  ; — we  will 
look  at  her,  and  not  at  the  pale  dead  words  that  she  writes. 
Hitherto  she  has  written  of  herself,  and  to  translate  her 
burning  language,  has  been  a  constant  delight.  With  Abe- 
lard  we  have  been  on  good  terms,  tolerating  his  pedantry; 
and,  for  the  sake  of  his  many  sorrows,  pardoning  the  want 
of  something  that  the  hearts  of  women  and  poets  can  feel, 
that  cannot  be  reduced  to  a  formula,  and  construed  to 
thought. 

Abelard's  answer  to  this  letter  is  a  treatise  on  monastic 
institutions,  and  possesses  no  interest  for  any  mortal  in  the 
nineteenth  century. 


216  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XXIX. 

THE  CURTAIN  FALLS/ 

As  a  stone  that  is  rolled  from  a  mountain  starts  slow- 
ly, at  first  turned  out  of  its  way  by  every  inequality 
of  surface,  but  gathers  force  as  it  goes,  at  length  leap- 
ing all  barriers ;  so  our  narrative  in  the  beginning 
shaped  its  course  in  the  midst  of  details,  but  now  it 
must  touch  upon  here  a  point,  and  there  a  point,  and 
hasten  to  a  close.*  It  was  pleasant  to  dwell  with  Abe- 
lard  in  his  youth,  when  a  noble  ambition  was  calling 
forth  his  energy ;  it  was  pleasant  to  dwell  with  him  in 
his  early  manhood,  when  he  was  conquering  in  heroic 
battle  those  who  would  silence  a  rising  man ;  it  was 
pleasant  to  dwell  with  him  when  he  was  strangely  re- 
lated to  one  of  the  noblest  of  women ;  there  was  a 
grave  satisfaction  in  following  him  over  the  arid 
wastes  of  his  first  years  of  monastic  life,  in  journeying 
with  him  through  the  burning  sands  of  persecution ; 
for  we  knew  that  there  was  an  oasis  ahead,  which 

*  This  figure  is  borrowed  from  "  Waverley." 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  217 

promised  a  cool  shade  and  refreshing  fountains, — a 
resting-place  where  the  weary  for  a  little  season  might 
have  at  least  a  sombre  peace,  a  solemn  hour  of  repose 
in  which  to  recount  with  melancholy  pleasure  the  joys 
of  vanished  days,  and  to  make  preparation  for  a  "way 
that  must  once  be  trod  by  all;"  but  before  us  now 
the  desert  again  lies,  stretching  away  as  far  as  the  eye 
can  reach,  inviting  the  wanderer  with  many  a  decep- 
tive mirage.  The  man  whose  life  has  been  so  full  of 
strange  vicissitudes  is  entering  upon  it,  and  his  next 
asylum  will  be  where  the  wicked  cease  from  troubling 
and  the  weary  are  at  rest. 

The  most  tranquil  period  of  Abelard's  life  was 
during  the  few  first  years  that  followed  his  corres- 
pondence with  Heloise.  The  Abbess  of  Paraclete  sent 
him  difficult  questions  in  theology,  which  she  could 
not  understand,  and  he  employed  his  time  in  answer- 
ing them.  For  her  he  also  composed  a  book  of  hymns, 
which  are  not  destitute  of  poetic  merit.  He  collected 
his  sermons  and  dedicated  them  to  her,  and  at  her  de- 
mand, wrote  his  Hexameron, — a  commentary  on  the 
first  chapter  of  Genesis.  During  this  period  he  either 
wrote  or  finished  most  of  his  works.*  Persecution  for  a 
season  ceased.  The  enemies  of  reason,  and  the  friends 
of  authority  seemed  to  fear  the  influence  of  Abelard. 
On  the  side  of  the  philosopher  were  the  prince  of 


Vide  Ouvrages  medits  d? Abelard,  bv  Cousin. 
10 


218  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Champagne ;  the  duke  of  Brittany  ;  and  the  Garlands, 
who  formed  a  dynasty  of  ministers  under  Louis  le  Gros 
and  his  sons.  He  was  also  favored  by  the  king  him- 
self. His  opinions  had  spread  far  and  wide,  making 
for  him  a  multitude  of  friends.  Many  of  his  old  pu- 
pils, who  loved  and  admired  their  master,  were  then 
holding  places  of  authority  in  the  schools,  in  litera- 
ture, and  in  the  church.  The  influence  of  Heloise 
was  great,  and  of  course  was  used  for  the  safety  of 
her  lover. 

About  the  year  1136,  Abelard  opened  his  school 
again  for  a  short  time,  on  the  hill  of  St.  Genevieve, 
near  Paris.  How  long  he  remained,  or  why  he  left, 
is  unknown.* 

In  the  mean  time  an  incident  occurred  at  the  Par- 
aclete which  revived  his  quarrel  with  the  church. 
Saint  Bernard  visited  Heloise  and  expressed  his  ad- 
miration for  the  order  of  the  convent,  but  took  it  upon 
himself  to  complain  of  an  alteration  in  the  prayer, 
made  by  Abelard.  The  complaint  of  course  reached 
him,  and  he  was  not  the  man  to  let  it  pass  in  silence. 
He  wrote*  to  Saint  Bernard,  defending  his  own  version, 
and  rebuked  the  saint  for  saying  daily  bread  instead 
of  super 'substantial  bread.  One  was  the  representa- 
tive of  free  thought,  and  the  other  of  authority,  in  the 

*  Vie  d' Abelard,  p.  171. 

f  Ab.  Op.,  Part  ii.,  Ep.  5.    P.  Asel.  ad  Bern,  elarsev.  abb., 
p.  244,  et  Serm.  xiii.,  p.  858. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  219 

Middle  Age,  and  even  so  small  a  breeze  was  sufficient 
to  fan  the  slumbering  fires  of  antagonism  between 
them. 

It  must  be  remembered,  too,  that  Abelard  had 
made  himself  in  many  ways  obnoxious  to  the  church. 
He  was  skilled  in  invective,  and  had  used  it  unspar- 
ingly against  the  ignorance  and  vices  of  the  convents. 
Even  bishops  did  not  escape  his  rash  criticism.  The 
traffic  in  indulgencies  was  attacked,  and  some  high 
dignitaries  in  the  church  were  accused  of  attempting 
false  miracles.  His  temper  was  irritable ;  he  loved 
controversy,  and  was  proud.  It  was  easy  to  be  seen 
that  his  doctrines,  if  not  in  themselves  heretical,  at 
least  tended  to  innovation. 

Gruillaume  de  Saint  Thierry  commenced  the  move- 
ment on  the  part  of  the  church.  He  wrote  a  common 
letter  to  the  bishop  of  Chartres  and  Saint  Bernard, 
calling  attention  to  the  heresies  of  Abelard.  Bernard, 
who  dedicated  his  passions  to  the  service  of  the  church, 
as  the  old  chevaliers  did  their  arms,  gave  a  willing  ear 
to  the  accusation,  and  the  bishop  of  Chartres  acted 
with  him  without  energy,  without  resistance,  for  he 
had  no  bitter  feeling  toward  the  philosopher. 

Saint  Bernard  had  one  or  two  friendly  conferences 
with  Abelard,  which  in  reality  amounted  to  nothing. 
While  they  were  together  they  did  not  greatly  disagree, 
but  each  carried  away  with  him  a  sentiment  of  animos- 
ity. Conflicting  ideas  cannot  live  together  in  the 


220  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

world  at  peace ;  they  set  men  and  nations  quarrelling, 
The  saint  preached  against  the  doctrines  and  the  ex- 
ample of  the  philosopher.  Abelard  defended  himself 
in  a  manner  not  the  best  adapted  to  conciliate.  Ber- 
nard wrote  to  the  pope,  using  his  skill,  his  zeal,  his 
energy* — every  art  of  which  he  was  master,  to  preju 
dice  the  holy  see  against  the  subtle  and  dangerous 
champion  of  reason. 

Abelard,  when  wearied  with  seeing  himself  defam- 
ed in  every  quarter,  demanded  public  proof  of  the 
charges  preferred  against  him. 

At  Sens,  the  archiepiscopal  city  of  Champagne, 
there  was  to  be  on  the  Octave  of  Pentecost,  in  1140, 
an  exposition  of  the  relics  of  the  church.  Louis  VII, 
who  found  great  delight  in  relics,  was  to  be  a  specta- 
tor at  the  festival.  Prelates  and  bishops,  princes  and 
rulers, — dignitaries  in  church  and  state — were  to  be 
present. 

Abelard  wrote  to  the  Archbishop  of  Sens,  asking 
that  those  who  were  to  assemble  to  witness  the  expo- 
sition of  the  relics  of  his  church  might  constitute  a  sy- 
nod, or  council,  before  which  he  might  respond  to  his  ad- 
versaries and  vindicate  his  faith.  The  Archbishop 
consented,  and  wrote  to  Saint  Bernard  to  appear  and 
make  good  his  accusation  of  Abelard.  The  saint  re- 
fused, alleging  his  incompetence  to  engage  in  a  tour- 

*  Hist,  de  Saint  Bernard,  par  M.  1'abbe  Ratisbonne,  t.  ii., 
c.  xxix.,  p.  31.  Vide  St.  Bern.  Op.  Ep.  clxxxviii.,  et  seq. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE  221 

nament  with  the  philosopher,  who  had  been  accustomed 
to  the  logical  saddle,  and  who  had  been  trained  to  the 
use  of  the  dialectic  lance,  from  his  very  youth.  He 
added  that  Abelard's  writings  were  sufficient  to  con- 
demn him.  He  wrote,  however,  to  the  bishops,  to  be 
on  their  guard  against  the  enemy  of  Christ. 

When  the  time  of  the  festival  came,  there  assem- 
bled kings,  archbishops,  princes,  bishops,  distinguish- 
ed masters  of  schools,  and  a  great  concourse  of  people. 
Saint  Bernard  found  it  necessary  to  attend,  if  he  would 
not  relinquish  the  accusation  of  heresy  brought  against 
his  rival  and  antagonist.  Wherever  he  appeared 
the  masses  bowed  with  reverence,  for  his  appearance 
was  full  of  sanctity,  and  his  mien  was  humble.  On 
the  other  hand,  the  crowd  shrank  from  Abelard,  for 
his  bearing  was  lofty,  and  his  adversaries  had  taught 
the  common  people  to  regard  him  as  an  enemy  of  all 
that  is  sacred  and  true. 

On  the  second  day  of  the  festival,  the  philosopher, 
surrounded  by  his  followers,  appeared  before  the 
waiting  assembly.  Saint  Bernard  was  there,  and  held 
in  his  hand  the  works  of  Abelard,  out  of  which  he  had 
picked  seventeen  passages  that  contained  heresies,  or 
errors  in  faith.  He  ordered  that  these  should  be 
read  in  a  loud  voice ;  but  Abelard,  interrupting  the 
reader,  said  that  he  would  hear  nothing,  that  he  ap- 
pealed to  the  Pontiff  of  Rome,  and  went  out  of  the 


222  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

assembly.*  Every  one  was  amazed;  but  order  was 
preserved,  and  the  passages  that  had  been  extracted 
from  his  writings  were  condemned  as  heretical. 

Abelard  doubtless  saw  condemnation  written  on 
the  faces  of  his  judges,  and,  knowing  that  he  had 
friends  at  Rome,  boldly  appealed  to  the  sovereign  of 
the  church.  "  His  adversaries,"  says  Brucker,f 
u  could  neither  endure  nor  penetrate  the  clouds  with 
which  he  enveloped  simple  truths ;  superstition,  ignor- 
ance, hypocrisy,  envy  found  matter  for  the  cruel  per- 
secution of  a  man  so  worthy  of  better  times  and  a 
better  destiny.  He  has  a  right  to  be  counted  among 
the  martyrs  of  philosophy." 

Those  who  condemned  the  doctrines  of  Abelard 
were  solicitous  concerning  the  decision  of  Rome.  Two 
letters  were  addressed  to  the  pope, — one  in  the  name 
of  the  archbishop  of  Sens  and  his  suffragans,  the  other 
in  the  name  of  the  archbishop  of  Rheims  and  his  suf- 
fragans. Both  of  these  were  written  by  Saint  Ber- 
nard. He  also  wrote  to  the  pontiff  on  his  own  account. 
There  was  also  correspondence  with  some  of  the  car- 
dinals,— with  any  who  could  be  of  service  in  defaming 
or  in  counteracting  the  influence  of  Abelard. 

The  persecuted  philosopher  set  out  for  Rome, 
to  plead  his  cause  before  the  pope.  He  believed 

*  An  account  of  this  is  contained  in  the  189th,  191st, 
and  337th  epistles  of  Saint  Bernard, 
f  Hist.  Grit.  Phil.,  t.  iii.,  p.  764. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  223 

that  he  should  not  be  condemned  unheard  ;  but  in  this 
he  was  destined  to  be  disappointed.  He  was  con- 
demned as  a  heretic  to  perpetual  silence,  and  the  order 
was  given  that  his  books  should  be  burned.  And  this 
was  not  all.  He  and  Arnauld  de  Brescia  were  to  be 
confined  separately,  in  such  religious  houses  as  seemed 
most  convenient. 

In  the  mean  time  Abelard,  who  was  growing  old, 
whose  health  was  broken,  had  sought  rest  on  his 
journey,  at  the  hospitable  abbey  of  Cluny.  Peter  the 
Venerable  had  kindly  received  him,  and  was  treating 
him  as  a  distinguished- guest.  Although  bowed  with 
infirmities,  he  was  still  strong  in  hope.  The  news  of 
the  decision  of  Rome  broke  his  spirit.  He  then  let 
go  the  phantom  of  ambition,  to  whose  shadowy  em- 
brace he  had  abandoned  himself  so  long,  at  the  expense 
of  all  that  is  dearest  in  life. 

The  prematurely  old  man  was  fortunately  in  the 
hands  of  one  who  knew  how  to  pity  his  misfortunes — 
who  knew  how  to  pour  upon  the  bleeding  wounds  of 
his  heart  the  oil  and  the  wine  of  consolation — whose 
authority  and  wisdom  could  procure  peace  for  him 
with  his  enemies.  The  venerable  Peter,  who  reminds 
us  of  the  good  Fenelon,  wrote  to  the  pope,  and  ob- 
tained permission  for  Abelard  to  spend  the  rest  of  his 
days  at  Cluny.  The  philosopher  wrote  a  confession 
of  faith,  and  the  abbe  of  Cluny  brought  about  a  re- 
conciliation between  him  and  Saint  Bernard.  Every 


224  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

effort  was  made  to  sweeten  the  declining  years  of  the 
far-famed  knight-errant  of  logic,  who  had  fought  so 
many  battles — who  had  conquered  so  many  enemies — 
who  had  himself  at  length  fallen  beneath  the  heavy 
hand  of  Rome. 

At  Cluny,  the  habits  of  Abelard  were  austere. 
The  monks  treated  him  kindly,  and,  so  far  as  his  fast- 
declining  health  would  permit,  he  gave  them  instruc- 
tion in  philosophy  and  religion.  "  It  was  the  super- 
intending providence  of  Heaven,"  says*  Peter  the 
Venerable  in  a  letter  to  Heloise,  "  which  sent  him  to 
Cluny  in  the  last  years  of  his  life.  The  present  was 
the  richest  which  could  have  been  made  us.  Words 
will  not  easily  express  the  high  testimony  which  Cluny 
bears  to  his  humble  and  religious  deportment  within 
these  walls.  Never  did  I  behold  abjection  so  lowly, 
or  abstemiousness  so  exemplary.  By  my  express  de- 
sire, he  held  the  first  place  in  our  numerous  commu- 
nity ;  but  in  his  dress  he  seemed  the  last  of  us  all. 
When  in  our  public  processions  I  saw  him  walking 
near  me,  collected  and  humble,  my  mind  was  struck ; 
so  great  a  man,  thought  I,  by  self-abasement  is  thus 
voluntarily  brought  low  !  Contrary  to  the  practice  of 
many,  who  call  themselves  religious  men,  Abelard 
seemed  to  take  delight  in  penury;  and  the  most 
simple  and  unadorned  habit  pleased  him  most.  He 

*  The  Hist,  of  the  Lives  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  by  the 
Rev.  Joseph  Berrington,  p.  301. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  225 

looked  no  further.  In  his  diet,  in  all  that  regarded 
the  care  of  the  body,  he  was  reserved  and  abstemious. 
More  than  what  was  absolutely  necessary,  he  never 
sought  for  himself,  and  he  condemned  it  in  others. 
His  reading  was  almost  incessant ;  he  often  prayed ; 
and  he  never  interrupted  his  silence,  unless  when, 
urged  by  the  entreaties  of  the  monks,  he  sometimes 
conversed  with  them,  or  in  public  harangues  explained 
to  them  the  great  maxims  of  religion.  When  able,  he 
celebrated  the  sacred  mysteries,  offering  to  God  the 
sacrifice  of  the  immortal  Lamb ;  and  after  his  recon- 
ciliation to  the  apostolic  see,  almost  daily.  In  a  word, 
his  mind,  his  tongue,  his  hand  were  ever  employed  in 
the  duties  of  religion,  in  developing  the  truths  of 
philosophy,  or  in  the  profound  researches  of  litera- 
ture." 

The  abbe  of  Cluny,  observing  that  the  health  of 
Abelard  was  rapidly  declining,  sent  him  to  the  priory 
of  Saint  Marcellus,  near  Chalons,  which,  as  well  as 
the  abbey,  was  in  Burgundy.  This  priory  was  not 
far  from  the  river  Saone,  and  on  account  of  its  healthy 
location,  was  regarded  as  the  best  place  for  the  resi- 
dence of  an  invalid.  On  the  21st  of  April,  1 142,  Peter 
Abelard  set  out  upon  a  new  journey ;  that  fiery  soul 
of  his  vanished  from  the  earth,  into  the  viewless 
Eternity,  went  to  those  realms  over  which  methinks 
troublesome  Mother  Church,  notwithstanding  her  pre- 


10* 


226  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tensions,  has  no  jurisdiction.  Let  him  who  is  sure 
that  he  is  above  ambition, — whom  passion  has  never 
caused  to  err, — who  has  never  laid  snares  for  an 
enemy, — who  has  never  awakened  in  the  breast  of 
unsuspecting  woman  a  love  that  he  could  not  nobly 
and  purely  return ;— let  such  a  one  stand  upon  the 
grave  of  Abelard  and  curse  him ;  but  we  must  let  fall 
for  him  a  sincere  tear.  Pity  him  we  must ;  and  with 
our  pity  mingles  much  admiration. 

Peter  the  Venerable — blessings  on  the  benevolent 
old  man ! — conveyed  the  heavy  news  to  Heloise,  in  the 
kindest  manner,  tempering  the  sad  narrative  with  the 
sweetest  spirit  of  consolation.  The  monks  of  Saint 
Marcellus  would  not  give  up  the  body ;  but  the  good 
abbe  of  Cluny  obtained  it  by  stealth,  and  took  it  to 
its  rightful  owner,  the  abbess  of  Paraclete. 

Heloise  lived  2 1  years  longer,  and  continued  to 
be  the  object  of  the  admiration  and  the  veneration  of 
her  age.  She  died  May  16,  1164.  "Heloise,"  says 
the  cautious  and  learned  Charles  de  Remusat,  "  is,  I 
believe,  the  first  of  women."  We  will  at  least  say 
this,  that  no  woman  mentioned  in  history  has  loved  so 
deeply  as  she.  Every  woman,  before  she  learns  to 
distrust  man,  loves,  like  Heloise,  with  the  whole  soul ; 
but  her  soul  was  so  finely  tempered,  her  love  was  so 
profound,  that  distrust  itself  was  conquered ;  in  her 
oyes  the  real  lover  was  continually  clothed  with  her 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  227 

own  ideal ;  hence  her  love  was  eternal,  like  her  own 
creative  spirit.  Procul,  procul,  este  profani  !  but  let 
those  who  know  what  a  great  and  constant  love  means, 
circle  near  in  silence,  and  lay  gently  upon  the  coffin's 
lid  the  mystic  branch  of  perennial  green. 


228  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XXX. 

RETROSPECT. 

O  anime  affannate 
Venite  a  noi  parlar. 

DANTE. 

IN  order  to  be  perfectly  fair  towards  Abelard,  we  here 
insert  the  most  eloquent  defence  of  him  that  has  ever 
been  written.* 

"  Once,  a  long  time  ago,  lived  two  personages 
much  enamored  of  each  other.  Never  were  lovers 
more  true,  more  beautiful,  more  unfortunate,  etc." 

In  commencing  his  fable,  the  ancient  chronicler 
seems  to  enter  with  full  sails  upon  our  subject,  for  he 
sums  up  in  few  words  the  entire  life  of  Heloise  and 
Abelard.  His  personages  are  forgotten,  but  all  the 
world  knows  ours.  The  history  of  their  misfortunes 
has  traversed  the  centuries ;  each  generation  has 

*  Lettres  d'Abselard  et  Heloise,  traduits  sur  les  manuscrits 
de  la  bibliotheque  royal,  par  E.  Oddoul :  precedes  d'un  essai 
historique,  par  M.  et.  Mine.  Guizot.  Edition  illustre  par  I.  Gi- 
goux.  Paris:  E.  Houdaile,  1839.  Vol.  2,  at  the  commence- 
ment. In  translating  this  eulogy,  we  have  omitted  certain 
portions  that  seemed  less  important 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  229 

hailed  in  their  united  names  the  glorious  symbol  of 
love.  In  view  of  these  noble  victims  poets  have  been 
inspired,  tender  hearts  have  been  touched;  and  in 
their  course,  at  once  triumphal  and  melancholy,  the 
two  lovers  have  received  every  homage,  here  a  flower, 
there  a  tear. 

The  renown  which  they  have  acquired  is  not 
usurped.  How,  in  fact,  can  we  help  feeling  a  vivid 
sentiment  of  admiration  in  presence  of  that  high  love 
which  neither  time  nor  fortune  can  overcome  ;  of  that 
ardor  of  passion  which  neither  blood  nor  tears  can 
extinguish,  which  survives  hope,  and  which,  as  a  last 
testimony,  breaks  the  very  portals  of  the  tomb  j  pas- 
sion so  exalted  and  superhuman,  that  tradition  has 
been  able  to  express  it  only  with  the  aid  of  the  mar- 
vellous ? 

Heloise  appears  to  us  from  the  first  with  that 
grandeur  of  character  which  did  not  quit  her.  It  is 
an  entrance  upon  the  stage  truly  heroic.  Scarcely 
has  she  had  time  to  act  or  speak,  before  you  are  aware 
that  an  invincible  sentiment  is  to  govern  her  whole 
life,  that  this  sentiment  is  her  life  itself.  Abe- 
lard  does  not  take  her ;  she  does  not  believe  that  she 
is  giving  herself;  one  would  say  that  she  awaits  him, 
and  that  she  belongs  to  him  from  all  eternity,  that  she 
has  come  into  the  world  only  to  acccomplish  this  mis- 
sion of  loving  beyond  all  verisimilitude.  The  antique 
fatality,  so  terrible  and  so  majestic,  is  here  found 


230  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

again,  brought  back  to  the  touching  proportions  of 
love.  To  it  Heloise  abandons  herself  with  her  whole 
soul ;  and  that  impatience  which  pushes  on  the  pre- 
destined, and  which  frightens  us  in  those  who  must 
arrive  at  crime,  offers  us  in  her  person  a  ravishing 
spectacle. 

As  soon  as  the  star  of  Abelard  has  shone  in  the 
clear  sky  of  her  youth,  like  the  Magi  who  went  to 
visit  Christ,  she  collects  her  richest  presents,  and 
comes  to  lay  at  his  feet  her  beauty,  her  love,  her  rep- 
utation— the  gold,  the  incense,  and  the  myrrh.  Still 
she  finds  herself  too  poor  !  In  return,  she  asks  no- 
thing. If  she  obtains  a  look,  a  sweet  word,  it  will 
always  be  for  her  a  favor,  a  grace.  She  does  not  cal- 
culate the  duration  of  this  unequal  exchange :  the 
thought  of  protecting  herself  against  an  injurious 
abandonment  is  far  from  her  mind.  For  a  dowry, 
she  gloriously  chooses  shame,  and  rejects  with  sincere 
tears  the  name  of  wife.  Eager  for  any  self-renuncia- 
tion, she  only  fears  remaining  below  that  task  of  affec- 
tion which  she  believed  she  could  never  fulfil  with  all 
the  devotion  of  her  heart.  Noble  queen,  more  adorned 
with  her  own  voluntary  dishonor  than  with  a  royal 
wreath  !  Saintly,  sublime,  and  unaffected  nature,  that 
touches  the  heaven  without  effort  in  wishing  to  remain 
upon  the  earth,  that  increases  in  grandeur  by  all  the 
humility  which  it  would  impose  on  itself ! 

Still  later,  after  her  marriage,  she  repels  the  feli- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  231 

citatioDS  which  are  addressed  to  her.  She  refuses, 
by  a  magnanimous  falsehood,  the  honor  of  the  rank 
which  belongs  to  her,  and  which  all  women  are  jealous 
to  maintain.  She  obstinately  denies  herself  entrance 
upon  the  world,  and  consents  to  suffer  from  her  uncle 
the  anger  and  the  vengeance  of  his  wounded  pride. 
But,  far  from  the  dark  valleys  where  selfishness 
thrives,  where  none  but  bitter  fruits  grow,  her  foot, 
whose  trace  the  angels  adore,  treads  the  heights  that 
are  flooded  with  light,  that  are  clothed  with  perennial 
flowers ;  a  celestial  benediction  is  shed  upon  all  her 
sacrifices,  and  divine  felicities  spring  for  her  from  all 
the  griefs  which  are  laid  upon  her  by  the  world. 
What  does  she  now  care  for  the  murmur  of  men  ?  A 
look  of  love  has  spread  above  her  head  a  firmament, 
whose  unalterable  azure  could  not  be  obscured  by 
the  smoke  of  their  scorn. 

This  complete  forgetfulness  of  self,  this  generous 
abdication  of  her  own  personality,  which  places 
Heloise  in  turn  in  the  rank  of  superior  souls,  is 
also  a  valuable  index  for  understanding  Abelard. 
What  kind  of  a  man  must  he  have  been  who,  with  one 
word,  irrevocably  fixed  the  destiny  of  the  first  woman 
of  her  century  ?  He  shows  himself,  he  calls  her : 
Here  I  am,  Heloise  responds ;  and  from  her  virginal 
sphere  she  descends  toward  him,  as  upon  an  inclined 
plane.  If  any  thing  can  give  us  a  just  idea  of  his 
merit,  it  is  surely  the  violent  and  enduring  love  with 


232  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


which  he  inspired  Heloise.  She  would  not  have  made 
an  ordinary  man  her  God.  On  his  side,  Abelard 
shows  himself  worthy  of  her.  The  terms  which  he 
uses  to  paint  his  passion  prove  how  deeply  this  nohle 
love  was  rooted  in  his  soul.  It  seems  as  though  one 
could  hear  his  voice  still  trembling  with  all  the  emo- 
tions which  he  had  previously  felt. 

It  is  known  nearly  in  what  measure  they  loved : 
an  account  of  this  love  should  now  be  rendered,  each 
should  be  assigned  his  part  in  the  common  expendi- 
ture, and  the  position  which  they  kept  toward  each 
other  should  be  clearly  designated.  This  question 
has  always  provoked  a  singular  diversity  of  opinion. 

This  disagreement  of  minds,  sometimes  the  most 
eminent,  upon  a  point  which  they  have  examined  with 
impartiality,  is  nevertheless  explained  in  a  natural 
manner ;  the  question  is  here  concerning  sentiment, 
that  is,  concerning  something  which  defies  all  rules 
and  all  methods. 

In  fact,  if  the  events  which  carry  with  them  their 
own  demonstration,  are  differently  judged ;  if  they  are 
exposed  to  controversy,  both  in  the  causes  which  pro- 
duced them,  and  in  the  consequences  with  which  they 
are  fraught ; — how  will  it  be  with  thoughts,  by  no 
means  translatable  into  acts,  scarcely  expressible  in 
words,  and  which  can  therefore  furnish  only  an  uncer- 
tain datum,  and  a  floating  basis  for  our  decisions  ? 
Destitute  of  the  inflexibility  of  accomplished  fact,  they 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  233 

come  to  us  only  under  a  relative  mode ;  instead  of 
governing  our  appreciation  by  the  power  which  is 
their  own,  they  are  subject  to  feeling.  It  is  then  that 
opinions  are  liable  to  be  different.  Our  criterion  is 
no  longer  in  the  nature  of  the  thing  itself,  which  is 
submitted  to  us ;  it  is  in  ourselves.  The  only  way 
which  remains  open  to  us  is  that  of  interpretation, 
and  how  many  issues  it  has  ! 

A  complete  latitude  is  therefore  reserved  for  the 
personal  opinion  of  whoever  would  occupy  himself 
with  a  question  like  this.  Whatever  may  be  the  au- 
thority of  those  who  have  previously  resolved  it,  their 
affirmation  can  have  only  the  force  of  conjecture. 

We  wish  to  make  known  the  intimate  thought  of 
the  lovers,  as  it  has  been  revealed  to  us  by  an  atten- 
tive examination  of  their  letters.  This  study  is  not 
without  interest.  Heloise  and  Abelard  will  for  an 
instant  live  again  under  our  eyes. 

The  history  of  their  good  fortune  is  short.  Two 
years  have  scarcely  passed  away,  when  the  memorable 
vengeance  of  Fulbert  comes  to  open  to  them  a  career 
at  once  so  sad  and  so  glorious. 

By  the  order  of  Abelard,  Heloise,  as  we  know, 
entered  a  convent. 

This  circumstance  has  given  rise  to  great  eulogies 
upon  Heloise,  and  to  a  grave  accusation  against  Abe- 
lard. He  has  been  reproached  with  having  been 
incapable  of  enduring  that  Heloise  should  remain 


234  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

free,  when  she  ceased  to  belong  to  him.  Let  us  ex- 
amine his  conduct. 

After  the  accident  of  which  he  was  the  victim, 
what  was  it  necessary  to  do  ? 

Despair  counselled  a  double  death.  Heloise  would 
doubtless  have  consented  to  die  with  him ;  but  he 
was  a  Christian,  and  did  not  wish  to  combat  misfor- 
tune by  crime.  Separation  having  become  necessary, 
the  convent  was  an  asylum,  sure  and  sacred,  where 
each  of  them  might  carry  a  thought  with  which  could 
never  be  associated  any  other  image  than  that  of  God. 
In  pronouncing  the  same  religious  vows,  they  re- 
nounced, for  heaven,  their  conjugal  tie,  which  seemed 
broken  upon  earth.  This  was  still  for  Abelard  a  kind 
of  joy. 

Abelard  once  in  the  convent,  was  it  proper  that 
Heloise  should  remain  in  the  world  ?  was  it  not  evi- 
dently to  recoil  before  the  vow  of  chastity  ?  was  it  not 
to  disgrace  the  first  epoch  of  their  loves,  and  to  show 
also  that  she  had  followed  the  instinct  of  pleasure, 
and  not  the  impulsion  of  her  own  heart  ?  The  world 
pardons  the  faults  of  a  great  passion,  but  it  rightly 
brands  vulgar  disorders.  Would  not  a  refusal,  on  the 
part  of  Heloise,  to  embrace  a  religious  life,  have 
seemed  like  a  tacit  invitation  to  the  desires  of  a  new 
lover  ? 

Abelard  did  not  admit  the  possibility  of  a  fall ; 
but  in  fine  this  possibility  existed,  and  when  this  idea 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  235 

alone  contained  for  him  all  the  torments  of  the  nether 
world,  was  it  necessary  to  risk,  on  the  vain  scruples 
of  delicacy,  the  sad  repose  which  might  still  remain 
to  him  ? 

He  knew  also  the  warning  of  the  Scripture  :  He 
who  does  not  shun  danger ,  will  succumb  to  it. 
Would  he  have  fulfilled  his  whole  duty  towards  He- 
loise,  if  he  had  not  fortified  her  against  these  tempta- 
tions ?  Abandoned  to  the  snares  of  the  world,  she 
either  would  succumb,  and  then  it  was  necessary  to 
render  a  feebleness  impossible  ;  or  she  would  come 
out  from  them  pure,  and  then  there  was  nothing  better 
to  do  than  to  render  more  easy  for  her,  by  the  solitude 
of  the  cloister  and  its  macerations,  a  victory  which 
the  world  would  so  sharply  dispute  with  her,  and 
would  doubtless  make  more  difficult  for  her  ?  The 
honor  and  the  interest  of  Heloise,  the  love  and  the 
conscience  of  Abelard,  all  dictated  the  course  which  he 
took — all  justified  the  use  which  he  made  of  his  au- 
thority. All  that  one  can  see  in  it,  is  a  wise  and 
noble  foresight.  There  is  a  long  distance  between 
this  sentiment,  and  a  defiance  equally  offensive  to 
both. 

A  passage  in  one  of  the  letters  of  Heloise  has 
served  as  a  text  for  articulate  reproach  against  Abe- 
lard.  Let  us  not  be  deceived  by  a  few  words  that  are 
very  vivid,  and  escape  in  the  transport  of  passion. 
The  letters  of  lovers  have  always  been  full  of  those 


236  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

hard  accusations  and  those  deep  reproaches  which  we 
must  be  careful  not  to  take  as  serious.  This  rancor 
of  words,  this  bitter  and  implacable  style,  is  often 
found  in  persons  who  perfectly  agree.  In  our  opinion, 
then,  the  words  of  Heloise  do  not  prove  that  Abelard 
was  jealous  in  the  bad  sense  of  the  word,  nor  even 
that  Heloise  really  thought  so.  Between  her  and 
him,  her  complaint  had  no  other  meaning  than  an  as- 
surance of  devotion,  than  the  protestation  of  a  love 
ready  to  be  frightened,  and  which  is  irritated  with 
even  the  appearance  of  doubt  and  suspicion. 

Let  us  return  to  Heloise  at  the  moment  in  which 
she  took  the  veil  at  Argenteuil.  No  one  less  than  I, 
certainly,  is  disposed  to  rob  her  of  eulogy.  But  there 
are  so  many  things  to  praise  in  this  woman,  that  we 
must  not  stop  at  secondary  circumstances  like  this. 
I  know  not  over-well  what  is  meant  by  the  liberty  of 
Heloise,  nor  whether  the  consequences  of  this  liberty 
accord  with  the  love  which  she  had  for  Abelard,  and 
with  the  nobleness  of  sentiment  of  which  she  gave 
so  many  proofs.  She  could  not,  during  the  life  of 
Abelard,  marry  a  second  time.  Then,  by  what  ac- 
commodations could  she  reconcile  the  secret  advanta- 
ges of  this  liberty  with  the  observance  of  sworn  faith, 
with  the  respect  which  in  so  high  a  degree  she  bore 
for  her  husband  ?  No,  indeed,  Heloise  does  not  wish 
for  this  liberty.  The  world  must  have  been  for  her  a 
real  convent ;  she  is  already  dead  to  the  world.  If 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  237 

she  made  a  sacrifice,  as  she  herself  said,  by  that  we 
must  understand  her  resignation  to  the  bodily  auster- 
ities of  the  religious  profession — things  whose  utility 
was  poorly  enough  demonstrated  for  her,  even  after 
ten  years  of  practice.  Neither  let  us  forget,  although 
she  has  not  mentioned  it,  that  the  convent  had 
snatched  her  child  from  her  arms,  and  thus  had  immo- 
lated the  joys  of  the  maternal  sentiment.  The  nat- 
ural repugnance  which  she  felt  for  the  convent  doubt- 
less yielded  still  to  this  other  privation.  Her  sacrifice 
was,  then,  great  and  real ;  but  the  high  opinion  which 
we  entertain  of  Heloise  forces  us  to  believe  that  it 
would  not  be  at  all  consistent  with  that  species  of 
suicide,  the  idea  of  which  is  gratuitously  attributed 
to  her. 

That  which  we  love  from  the  first  is  her  obedience 
to  her  husband,  that  respectful  and  absolute  confidence 
of  the  centurion,  which  asks  no  reason,  and  for  which 
one  word  is  sufficient :  Do  this,  says  Abelard,  and  she 
does  it. 

Formerly,  in  order  to  escape  marriage,  she  could 
oppose  him  with  her  reasonings,  her  prayers,  and  her 
tears  :  resistance  was  then  as  great  a  proof  of  love  as 
submission  itself:  now,  the  least  hesitation  would  be 
a  revolt  and  a  crime,  for  she  would  inflict  a  mortal 
wound  upon  Abelard.  He  has  said :  Go,  and  she 
goes.  Should  the  fiery  gulfs  of  the  earth  be  opened 
beneath  her  feet,  still  she  will  go. 


238  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Let  us  forget  what  was  quite  out  of  the  ordinary 
course  in  the  conversion  of  Heloise.  Other  women 
before,  other  women  since,  have  accepted  or  sub 
mitted  to  the  same  conditions  of  life,  whose  privation 
would  not  have  been  remarked  without  the  celebrity 
of  the  pleasures  of  which  they  were  the  consequence. 
The  element  of  our  admiration  is  not,  then,  in  a  fact 
whose  accomplishment  must  be  referred  to  its  neces- 
sity ;  we  find  it  higher,  in  the  thoughts  with  which 
Heloise  accompanies  it.  The  more  Abelard  is 
alarmed  on  account  of  his  misfortune,  the  more  she 
wishes  to  reassure  him  by  irrefragable  proofs  of  devo- 
tion. The  more  the  horizon  presents  to  the  eyes  of 
Abelard  sombre  tints,  the  more  does  she  wish  to 
enrich  it  with  ideal  hues, — the  more  does  she  wish  to 
display  there  unlooked-for  splendors.  Under  the 
complaint  of  Cornelia  appears  to  us  the  solemn  en- 
gagement which  she  took  in  her  own  heart ;  and  we 
see  that  she  has  already  fulfilled  it  during  a  period 
of  ten  years  with  religious  fidelity,  when  she  expresses 
it  in  her  second  letter,  in  words  which  those  who  have 
read  them  will  never  forget : — 

"  Would  that  I  might  do  penance  sufficient  for 
this  crime,  and  that  the  length  of  my  expiations 
might  balance  in  some  sort  the  pains  of  your  punish- 
ment !  What  you  have  suffered  for  a  moment  in 
body,  I  would  suffer  all  my  life  in  the  contrition  of 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  239 

my  soul :  at  least,  after  this  satisfaction,  if  any  one 
can  still  complain,  it  will  be  God,  not  you." 

In  view  of  such  a  sentiment,  does  it  not  seem 
that  Love  himself  has  passed  before  us,  and  that 
these  words  are  a  virtue  gone  out  from  the  borders  of 
his  divine  garment  ?  We  must  here  cry  out  with  the 
poet : — 

0  glorious  trial  of  exceeding  love, 
Illustrious  evidence,  example  high  I 

Magnanimity,  its  radiant  in  crown,  has  not  a  brighter 
jewel. 

Moreover,  testimonies  of  this  nature  are  not  rare 
in  the  extraordinary  love  of  Heloise  and  Abelard. 

The  unanimous  opinion  of  contemporaries  had  so 
well  established  its  glory,  that  it  was  traditionally 
maintained  in  all  its  splendor  nearly  five  hundred 
years.  The  monument  which  alone  could  consolidate 
it,  and  render  it  imperishable,  did  not  begin  to  be 
erected  till  1616,  under  the  hands  of  d'Amboise. 
He  collected  the  letters  of  the  two  lovers,  buried 
until  then  in  some  rare  manuscripts  of  the  thirteenth 
century,  and  thus  restored  to  us  the  testament  of 
their  love  and  of  their  genius. 

Unfortunately  we  have  a  deficiency  to  establish. 
A  part  of  their  correspondence  is  wanting  to  us. 
Those  letters,  written  al  tempo  dei  dubbiosi  desiri, 
at  the  time  when  each  word  is  a  hymn ;  when  the 


240  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

heart  is  so  light  in  the  breast,  that  it  seems  borne  in 
the  hand  of  an  angel ;  when  the  ear  is  filled  with 
sweet  murmurs,  and  the  soul  with  unknown  rap- 
tures ;  when  the  eyes,  as  far  as  their  vision  reaches, 
every  where  meet  none  but  pleasing  views  ;  when  the 
virginal  crowd  of  hopes  can  admire  their  own  beauty 
in  a  limpid  memory ;  when  memory  itself  is  a  hope ; 
when,  in  the  chalice  of  the  infinite,  our  intoxicated 
lips  quaff  a  potion  of  flame  which  never  slakes  the 
spirit's  thirst ;  when  the  thought,  ever  the  same, 
with  which  the  mind  is  nourished,  seems  to  us  a  wor- 
ship rendered  to  God,  and  each  breath  from  the  bosom 
a  vapor  of  incense  which  ascends  to  him ; — those  let- 
ters, like  a  charming  echo  in  which  all  the  voices  of 
joy  are  mingled, — that  of  the  past  which  is  the  most 
dreamy,  that  of  the  present  which  is  the  most  loved 
and  the  most  tender,  and  that  of  the  future  which 
unites  both  the  others ; — those  letters  we  do  not  pos- 
sess. 

Two  years  have  disappeared  like  a  world  en- 
gulfed ;  like  an  Atlantis  sunk  in  the  midst  of  the 
waves,  with  its  fragrant  villas,  its  verdant  asylums 
sacred  to  Pales,  its  crowns  of  flowers  plundered  of 
their  leaves  upon  the  festive  table.  Who  shall 
return  to  us  the  riches  of  those  two  vessels,  whose 
sails  were  filled  with  sweet  sighs,  which  were  laden 
with  ravishing  messages,  and  which  have  not  been 
able  to  land  upon  the  shore  of  posterity  !  Irrepara- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  241 

ble  loss  !  Those  two  years  left  no  traces, — gracious 
sisters,  who  took  for  themselves  all  the  nuptial  joys, 
who  fell  asleep  in  the  tomb  by  wrapping,  like  Polyx- 
ena,  the  folds  of  their  garment  around  their  divine 
beauty,  and  whom  their  sisters  have  continually  wept ! 

At  an  epoch  wholly  warmed  with  the  divine  fires 
of  enthusiasm,  what  immortal  hues  did  not  love 
assume  under  the  hand  of  Heloise  and  Abelard  ! 
Prosperity  is  the  true  domain  of  love.  That  it  may 
mount  its  car  and  rejoice  the  heavens  with  its  pres- 
ence, it  must  have  its  crown  of  luminous  rays,  its 
orient  must  be  sown  with  roses,  its  zenith  must  be  of 
fluid  gold,  and  it  must  be  clothed  with  a  crimson  robe 
at  its  setting.  We  have  the  god  without  his  attri- 
butes. His  altar  is  saddened  by  the  fillets  conse- 
crated to  his  remains,  and  by  the  sombre  branches  of 
the  cypress. 

However,  if  of  those  two  correspondences,  pro- 
duced at  such  different  times,  and  under  such  differ- 
ent impressions,  one  was  to  be  lost,  we  think  that  the 
more  precious  remains  to  us.  The  first  would  have 
charmed  our  eyes  with  sweet  pictures,  would  have 
deliciously  recounted  to  us, — 

"  Quanti  dolci  pensier,  quanto  disio 
Men6  costoro  al  doloroso  passo  ;" 

and,  without  doubt,  instead  of  entering  hastily  upon 

that  life  so  arid  and  so  wasted  by  suffering,  it  would 
11 


242  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

have  been  sweet  for  us  to  traverse  the  fresh  shades 
of  their  short  felicities.  But  the  second  appears  far 
more  important  in  the  eyes  of  most.  The  secret  of 
their  hearts  is  in  this,  perhaps,  more  distinctly  re- 
vealed. 

Is  it  not  also  true  that  continued  prosperity  can 
interest  us  very  little, — can  affect  us  scarcely  at  all  ? 
Suffering  attracts  us  more,  seems  nearer  to  our  na- 
ture, and  humanity  is  mostly  found  in  mournful  vicis- 
situdes. Always  favored  by  circumstances,  the  love 
of  Heloise  would  have  occupied  her  whole  life ;  she 
would  have  remained  enveloped  in  the  mysterious 
joys  of  the  connubial  state  and  in  the  tranquil  sweets 
of  maternity.  Like  so  many  other  females,  she 
would  have  borne  with  her  to  the  tomb  the  secret  of 
that  divine  force  which  was  given  her,  and  of  that  ad- 
mirable sentiment  which  believes  all,  hopes  all,  endures 
ally  suffers  all.  A  misfortune  has  revealed  to  us 
that  secret,  and  that  misfortune  has  made  us  admire 
all  the  treasures  concealed  in  her  soul.  She  has  been 
made  a  queen  by  a  crown  of  thorns. 

Sad  and  bitter  royalty  !  Admiration  too  dearly 
purchased !  It  is  under  the  sackcloth  of  the  nun  that 
we  find  the  ardent  and  passionate  woman ;  it  is  only 
by  her  tears  that  we  can  judge  of  the  graces  of  her 
smile.  It  was  necessary  that  the  vase  should  be 
broken  that  we  might  be  permitted  to  breathe  its 
celestial  perfume. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  243 

Heloise  does  not  go  to  seek  consolation  in  the 
monastic  life.  No  healing  plant  will  grow  for  her  in 
the  barren  earth  of  the  cloister,  nor  in  the  vase  of 
pious  mortifications.  For  her  there  are  but  two 
events  in  her  life, — the  day  when  she  knows  that  she 
is  loved  by  Abelard,  and  the  day  when  she  loses 
him.  All  the  rest  is  effaced  for  her  eyes  in  a  night 
profound.  Her  tears  at  the  moment  of  pronouncing 
the  religious  vows  are  not  given  to  fear,  but  to  regret. 
Half  her  soul  is  lost,  and  the  future  has  no  longer  for 
her  either  vague  terrors  or  vague  promises.  Her 
past  days  are  accursed, — accursed  are  her  days  to 
come ;  an  unbroken  grief  equally  covers  them  with 
its  black  wings.  Let  her  enter,  then,  with  indiffer- 
ence into  those  sad  solitudes  where  nothing  but  sobs 
is  heard  from  earth,  nothing  but  menaces  from  hea- 
ven ;  into  that  death  which  remembers  life  ! 

Heloise  is  not  stoical ;  neither  is  the  mysticism  of 
hope  a  pillow  which  can  put  to  sleep  her  chagrins ; 
there  is  no  more  repose  for  her.  What  matters  it 
that  the  wounded  fawn  has  escaped  to  its  retreat,  if  it 
carries  with  it  the  fatal  dart  ?  With  the  holy  words 
of  the  liturgy,  her  mouth,  in  spite  of  her,  will  mingle 
words  profane.  All  illusions  will  hover  before  her 
eyes,  and  touch  her  with  their  wings  of  flame.  By 
day,  during  the  solemnity  of  the  sacrifices,  fascinated 
by  an  interior  contemplation,  her  soul  will  wander 
into  the  world  of  sweet  reveries ; — hearts  that  leap 


244  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

with  joy, — looks  that  cannot  be  broken  off, — words 
half  uttered,  whose  meaning  is  for  heaven, — lips  that 
seek  each  other, — sighs  that  are  mingled, — eternity 
floating  between  two  moments, — delicious  disquiet,  at 
the  foundation  of  which  throbs 'and  moans  an  infinite 
desire, — all  the  dreams  that  issue  from  the  ivory  gate, 
will  come  to  surround  her  with  their  magic  circle,  and 
to  reconstruct  for  her  eyes  the  edifice  of  her  vanished 
joys.  The  night,  continuing  her  dream,  and  reviving 
the  hours  that  passed  too  quickly  away,  will  bring 
back  their  light  phantoms  to  seize  her  soul,  and  rock 
it  in  their  velvety  arms;  to  repeat  sweetly  in  her  ear 
the  acclamations  of  the  crowd,  and  the  popular 
triumphs  of  her  lover,  and  also  the  sound  of  his  foot- 
step, as  when  he  ascended  the  winding  stairs  of  her 
house  on  the  banks  of  the  Seine,  and  the  longed-for 
accents  of  his  voice. 

But,  in  the  morning,  the  spectre  of  widowhood  is 
there  awaiting  her  awakening,  to  deposit  each  day  upon 
her  lips  a  bitterer  dreg,  in  her  eyes  a  more  scalding 
tear,  in  her  heart  a  more  painful  regret,  and  upon  her 
face  a  more  hopeless  pallor. 

Ten  years  of  prayer,  of  abstinence,  and  of  sleepless- 
ness weighed  upon  that  fiery  nature  without  dampening 
its  ardor.  In  vain  the  walls  of  the  cloister  hung  over 
her  with  their  gloomy  shades ;  in  vain  they  enveloped 
her  with  their  sepulchral  influences  ;  in  vain  they  gath- 
ered around  her  the  folds  of  an  anticipated  shroud, — 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  245 

the  impulse  and  the  flame  still  survived  under  the  sack- 
cloth. Under  the  vaults  of  the  convent  she  breathes 
the  ardent  atmosphere  of  days  that  are  no  more.  She 
passes  and  repasses  there,  as  it  were  under  the  magni- 
ficent arches  of  an  enchanted  palace.  There  every 
object  has  received  something  from  her  own  soul,  every 
echo  is  filled  with  well-known  voices  that  welcome  her, 
that  retain  her.  A  deposed  queen,  she  marches  again 
into  her  kingdom,  and  the  triumphant  charm  replaces 
her  a  moment  upon  the  throne  she  lost. 

The  deception  is  not  long.  Violently  recalled  to 
the  actual  world,  the  recluse  finds  herself  face  to  face 
with  the  deplorable  causes  of  her  misfortune ;  then 
she  is  soured  and  vexed,  she  accuses  men  and  destiny, 
and,  swelling  the  voice  of  her  grief  to  the  tone  of  au- 
dacious murmurs,  she  would,  like  Job,  lay  her  request 
at  the  feet  of  the  Eternal,  and  contest  the  matter  with 
him. 

Why  has  she  been  so  hardly  chastised  ?  Why  is 
she  widowed  ?  Ah  !  our  dove  was  scarcely  made  for 
the  monastic  languors  of  which  Colardeau  speaks,  and 
how  different  was  her  vocation !  If  you  doubt  it, 
look  at  what  she  utters.  The  vitality  of  youth  is 
poured  upon  those  breathing  and  native  pages,  where 
memory  is  prodigal  of  its  honey  and  its  gall.  Her 
thought  vibrates  with  all  the  thrills  of  the  flesh, — her 
speech  has  a  sex ;  and  that  shivering  with  which  she 
is  electrified,  and  which  runs  over  her  from  head  to 


246  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

foot,  doubtless  has  not  its  origin  in  the  cloister.  The 
pulsations  of  her  blood  can  still  be  counted  upon  the 
paper  which  she  touched.  (Ah  !  Fulbert,  what  have 
you  done  ?)  Such  passages  are  only  a  paraphrase  of 
the  charming  Song  of  Solomon. 

But  what  a  profound  and  pure  sentiment  there  is 
under  this  plastic  form  of  her  love !  How  does  it 
breathe  over  the  dust  of  this  earth  a  divine  breath, 
which  penetrates  and  ennobles  it !  If  her  pen  is  sister 
to  the  pencil  of  Rubens,  we  should  still  know  not  how 
to  forget  its  relationship  with  that  of  Raphael.  From 
those  half-formed  thoughts,  whose  bosom  one  sees 
rising  and  trembling  like  an  appeal  of  voluptuousness, 
escapes  an  irradiation  of  modesty  which  covers  and 
protects  them,  like  that  golden  cloud  which,  upon 
Mount  Ida,  screened  from  the  eyes  of  the  other  divini- 
ties the  loves  of  the  powerful  mother  of  Olympus. 

What  delicacy  also,  what  discretion,  what  respect, 
united  with  the  most  abandoned  passion !  If  any 
word  seems  to  go  beyond  the  sacred  limit  which  her 
heart  prescribes  to  itself,  if  any  complaint  tempered 
in  the  fire  of  her  sorrow  seems  to  preserve  its  sharp- 
ness, that  sorrow  stops  short,  and  is  forgotten, — a 
single  sentiment  remains — the  fear  of  having  betrayed 
her  love  by  an  expression  too  little  guarded.  As  soon 
as  she  returns  upon  herself  by  a  recantation  in  those 
adorable  circuits ;  behold  her  wholly  occupied  in  ex- 
plaining herself,  and  her  soul  grounds  itself  upon  in- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  247 

describable  endearments  in  order  to  retrieve  an  error 
that  she  has  never  committed. 

It  is  not  in  vain  that  we  have  loved  the  rare  sub 
mission  of  Heloise.  She  perseveres  to  the  end,  with- 
out ever  being  wearied.  When  we  see  her  weeping, 
groaning,  heaping  reproaches  upon  imprecations,  we 
ask  ourselves,  where  will  the  murmuring  wave  of  her 
anger  subside  ?  One  word  from  Abelard,  and  all  is 
calm.  From  the  height  of  all  that  storm,  she  descends 
in  the  timid  silence  of  obedience,  and  the  rage  of  her 
rebellion  is  calmed,  even  to  the  humble  posture  of 
supplication:  "  I  will  be  silent — pardon  me." 

Who  could  think  that  such  a  woman  may  have 
been  paid  with  ingratitude  ?  It  is,  however,  what  has 
been  pretended.  Most  have  been  severe  towards 
Abelard.  It  has  been  said  that  on  his  part  the  seduc- 
tion of  Heloise  was  a  fault  that  had  not  even  love  for 
an  excuse, — that  it  was  done  coldly,  with  deliberate 
purpose,  as  a  pastime, — that  he  deceived  the  confidence 
of  Fulbert.  There  has  been  established  between  the 
expressions  of  the  spouses  a  sorry  parallel  for  Abelard. 
He  has  been  treated  as  a  loose  pedant,  a  hard  and 
cold  man,  as  a  brute,  in  every  way  unworthy  of  the 
love  so  vivid,  so  noble,  so  disinterested,  of  Heloise. 
The  charge  is  grave,  for  it  has  been  made  in  history, 
which  increases  the  importance  of  every  thing  it 
touches,  and  by  hands  which  seem  to  partake  with 
history  this  privilege.  We  hasten  to  shun  this  charge 


248  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

as  a  testimony  that  it  does  not  belong  to  us  to  com- 
bat,— we  shall  be  more  at  our  ease  with  the  opinion 
which  it  represents. 

Since  Boyle,  it  has  been  a  habit  among  those 
who  have  spoken  of  Abelard  to  equip  against  his  love 
a  small  reasoning,  to  put  in  the  lists  some  phrases  arnf- 
ed  from  head  to  foot,  and  to  give  them  full  rein  against 
that  unfortunate,  who  did  not  sufficiently  love  his 
wife.  I  like  this  chivalrous  exaltation,  and  this 
harsh  demand  in  favor  of  Heloise.  We  are  happy 
to  find  so  many  people  disposed  to  do  better  than  Ab- 
elard. Without  doubt,  it  is  well  to  break  a  lance  in 
favor  of  beauty, — the  part  is  brilliant  to  play  in  France, 
and  such  passages  at  arms  will  always  be  applaud- 
ed; but  at  the  moment  when  the  champions  lower 
the  visier,  and  bending  upon  the  saddle-bows  with 
lance  in  rest,  await  only  the  signal  for  combat  .... 
hold,  knights !  you  are  tilting  against  justice  and 
truth ;  your  adversary  also  bears  the  colors  of  your 
own  lady  ; — would  you  then  destroy  her  lover  out  of 
gallantry  for  her  ?  Your  valor  is  likely  to  frighten 
Heloise;  she  is  not  the  one,  I  fear  indeed,  who  has 
put  on  for  you  your  spurs. 

What  a  fine  history  has  been  spoiled !  How  has 
that  delicious  legend  been  defloured,  by  making  the 
man  a  roue,  and  the  woman  a  duped  mistress ! 

These  are  errors  not  very  dangerous,  it  is  true, — 
nevertheless,  should  they  have  no  other  inconvenience 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  249 

than  to  mar  the  pleasures  of  our  mind,  they  ought  to 
be  removed.  Say  what  you  will  of  Abelard ;  that  he 
knew  not  the  Greek,  nor  the  sense  of  the  law  Quin- 
que  Pedibus, — pierce  him  in  default  of  his  theology, 
wound  his  dialectics,  bury  to  the  hilt  the  sword  of  your 
criticism  in  the  softness  of  his  character  — it  is  the  side 
poorly  defended ;  refuse  him  every  other  merit  and 
every  other  glory,  but  at  least  do  not  rob  him  of 
his  love  for  Heloise,  do  not  make  of  him  an  incarnate 
syllogism ;  let  the  heart  of  the  man  throb  beneath  the 
cuirass  of  the  philosopher. 

The  language  of  Abelard  seems  to  us  at  once  fit- 
ting and  tender.  He  knows  the  ravage  caused  by  the 
Letter  to  a  friend,  which  fell  into  the  hands  of  Helo- 
ise. Heloise  is  not  strong,  as  she  herself  confesses  ; 
if  he  be  a  moment  feeble,  she  is  lost.  See  also  with 
what  nobleness  and  what  dignity  he  comes  to  heraid  ! 
How  the  exhortations  of  piety  borrow  in  his  mouth  the 
insinuating  charm  and  the  delicate  persuasives  of  love ! 
He  has  judged  her  situation, — an  end  has  been  made 
of  earthly  joys.  But  if  there  is  no  more  hope,  there 
is  still  fear.  Heloise  looks  to  him  ;  she  questions  him 
as  to  his  attitude ;  at  the  least  sign  of  fainting  on  his 
part,  she  is  ready  to  fall  into  blasphemy.  Let  the 
vulture  tear  his  heart,  it  matters  little,  his  face  must 
show  no  signs  of  his  grief.  So  he  is  calm ;  at  least 
he  forces  himself  to  appear  so.  His  courage  is  as 

great  as  his  misfortune. 
11* 


250  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Without  doubt,  to  consider  only  the  ascetic  exter- 
nals of  his  style,  we  might  be  disposed  to  take  the 
letters  of  Abelard  for  sermons ;  and  it  may  be  said 
that  such  is  not  the  language  of  love  in  the  ordinary 
conditions  of  life.  But  here  every  thing  is  out  of  the 
common  course.  In  order  to  judge  his  letters  rightly, 
we  must  place  ourselves  at  the  right  point  of  view. 
A  man  broken  by  every  misfortune,  wounded  in  his 
person  and  in  his  affections ;  betrayed,  calumniated, 
persecuted,  scarcely  guarding  his  life  against  the 
poison  of  his  enemies  and  the  poniards  of  his  foes ; 
bowed  with  infirmities,  overcome  by  excess  of  labor 
and  austerities  of  every  kind ;  macerated  in  body  and 
soul,  calling  death  as  a  benefit  which  can  alone  put  an 
end  to  his  intolerable  punishments, — such  is  the  man 
who  writes  to  Heloise  after  long  years  of  separation ; 
and  if  he  remembers  his  love  for  her,  it  lives  also  in 
company  with  another  thought, — 

One  fatal  remembrance — one  sorrow  that  throws 
Its  bleak  shade  alike  o'er  our  joys  and  our  woes — 
To  which  life  nothing  darker  nor  brighter  can  bring, 
For  which  joy  hath  no  balm,  and  affliction  no  sting. 

But  must  we  expect  from  Abelard  letters  like 
those  which  Mirabeau  wrote  to  Sophie  ?  Did  the 
cell  of  the  abbe  of  St.  Gildas  conceal  hopes  like 
those  which  the  tower  of  Vincennes  concealed  ?  If 
these  men  both  polluted  the  sacred  ground  of  affran- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  251 

chisement,  were  they  not  widely  separated  when  they 
were  writing, — one  to  her  who  had  been  his  wife,  the 
other  to  her  who  was  his  enamored  still  ?  Shall  we 
ask  from  Abelard  the  naive  transport  of  a  page,  or 
the  bucolic  elegies  of  a  swain  ? 

Abelard  has  not  ceased  to  love  Heloise ;  on  the 
contrary,  the  admiration  which  he  feels  for  a  courage 
already  long  proved,  his  respect  for  a  life  devoted  to 
the  accomplishment  of  the  most  rigorous  practices, 
his  gratitude  for  sacrifices  so  generously  accepted,  his 
regrets  even  in  view  of  so  beautiful  an  existence, 
broken  like  a  flower  by  his  hands, — all  increases  his 
love,  elevates  and  confirms  it.  But  it  is  no  longer 
altogether  a  worldly  love.  The  position  of  the  par- 
ties is  an  exception. 

Love  is  no  longer  free,  it  must  give  up  its  allure- 
ments to  imperative  exigences.  Its  form  is  pre- 
scribed. Abelard  will  study  it  in  the  religious  obli- 
gations which  are  imposed  on  them,  in  the  care  of  the 
heart  which  he  wishes  to  heal,  in  the  effects  which  he 
ought  to  produce  upon  a  soul  in  grief,  and  still  sick 
with  memories.  It  is  there  that  he  must  find  her ; 
she  will  have  a  veil  after  the  manner  of  widows.  She 
will  be  melancholy ;  but  in  that  graceful  and  lan- 
guishing shade,  in  the  morbidness  of  her  emotions,  it 
will  be  easy  to  guess  how  strong  and  luxuriant  was 
the  life  with  which  the  body  was  formerly  animated. 

By  a  fatal  compromise  with  the  duties  of  their 


•252  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

habit,  will  the  troubled  tide  of  impenitent  memories 
mingle  with  the  lustral  waters  of  religion  ?  A 
Catholic  priest,  on  the  guard  against  himself,  not 
daring  to  give  way  to  the  overflowing  of  an  affection 
which  he  fears  at  present  like  a  crime,  he  observes 
himself,  he  fears  the  dangerous  contagion  of  too  vivid 
a  word,  and  the  rupture  of  a  wound  scarcely  healed ; 
he  puts  all  the  tenderness  of  the  husband  under  the 
disguise  of  Christian  symbols  and  of  sacred  texts. 

If  perchance  his  soul,  softening  at  a  memory  too 
touching,  lets  escape  the  cry  of  its  grief,  all  in  a 
fright,  he  changes  the  past  instantly,  he  implores  in 
his  turn,  he  appeals  to  the  generosity  of  Heloise,  to 
her  love  and  her  pity ;  he  asks  her  pardon  for  the 
frightful  torture  which  he  would  experience  in  seeing 
her  so  unworthily  vanquished  ;  and  the  courage  which 
she  did  not  possess  for  herself,  she  will  find,  since 
Abelard  has  need  of  it. 

He  speaks  to  her  of  his  own  perils,  but  it  is  for 
the  purpose  of  giving  a  change  to  that  grief  which, 
always  falling  back  upon  itself,  frets  itself,  and  is  in- 
creased without  relaxation ;  it  is  for  the  purpose  of 
turning  to  the  future  that  attention  which  is  torn 
with  the  memory  of  the  past ;  the  past  is  the  only 
enemy  which  it  is  necessary  to  vanquish.  He  risks 
nothing  in  saddening  the  soul  of  Heloise  with  the  sen- 
timent of  dangers  that  threaten  him  ;  he  uses  fear  as 
an  auxiliary,  as  a  powerful  diversion  from  despair. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  253 

Inasmuch  as  he  makes  her  think  about  him  more 
than  about  herself,  he  profits  by  the  victory ;  he  no 
longer  lets  her  turn  her  eyes  towards  an  epoch  appa- 
rently cursed  with  the  malediction  of  Heaven.  He 
breaks  every  tie  that  still  binds  her  to  earth ;  he  en- 
courages her  to  sustain  herself  on  the  lofty  and  serene 
heights  of  Christianity,  and  by  a  touching  artifice, 
placing  himself  at  the  feet  of  God,  he  calls  upon  her 
to  follow  him,  and  extends  to  her  his  arms.  He  is 
sure  of  making  her  come  to  him.  He  invites  her  to 
new  nuptials  in  Christ,  and  the  sweet  creature  yields 
to  this  other  love,  although  she  likes  the  old  better. 
It  shall  never  be  said  that  she  once  disobeyed  him. 

Do  not  take  his  numerous  theological  dissertations 
for  works  of  supererogation,  nor  his  numerous  cita- 
tions of  Scripture  as  useless  rhapsodies ;  for  he  thus 
traces  his  journey  towards  heaven;  he  smooths  all 
obstacles,  he  strews  his  way  with  green  branches  and 
with  various  flowers  from  the  holy  books ;  he  mar- 
shals in  an  ascending  series  along  his  route  the  noble 
company  of  Apostles  and  Fathers  of  the  Church,  who 
encourage  her  with  voice  and  gesture,  who  bless  her, 
on  the  way,  with  their  venerable  hands,  who  sustain 
her,  console  her,  fortify  her,  and  accompany  her  with 
their  benedictions.  Moreover,  does  he  not  himself 
journey  with  her  ? 

No  !  Abelard  is  not  for  Heloise  a  cold  pedagogue. 
From  that  tree  of  science  whose  fruits  he  would  have 


254  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

her  taste,  there  silently  distils  a  manna  of  tenderness 
that  nourishes  her  courage.  No !  he  is  not  a  rigid 
monk,  who  lets  fall  from  his  lips  nothing  but  anthemas. 
He  knows  how  to  win  her  to  the  austere  contempla- 
tions of  duty  by  words  that  animate  her  dying  hope, 
that  give  to  that  poor  eager  soul  its  food  of  love. 

Having  once  placed  her  upon  the  ground  of  rea- 
son, he  appeals  to  her  on  every  side.  On  the  side  of 
her  sense  of  justice  :  "  Would  she  oppose  the  evident 
will  of  Heaven  ?"  On  the  side  of  her  pride  :  "  Pom- 
pey  is  living,  but  his  fortune  has  perished.  Did  Cor- 
nelia, then,  love  what  she  has  lost  ?"  On  the  side  of 
her  conscience  and  her  responsibility :  "  She  is  an 
abbess,  she  also  has  charge  of  souls."  He  knows  that 
in  a  soul  as  great  as  that  of  Heloise,  justice,  dignity, 
conscience,  are  not  vain  words;  he  knows  that  a 
spirit  as  vigorous  as  hers  always  acts  in  virtue  of  a 
conviction,  of  the  head  or  heart,  of  reason  or  senti- 
ment, and  because  he  believes  in  truth.  This  is  the 
reason  why  he  discusses  with  her,  why  he  instructs 
her  in  faith,  why  he  lavishes  upon  her  without  mea- 
sure all  the  lessons  of  resignation. 

The  task  is  difficult.  Like  the  mother  of  young 
Arthur,  Heloise  is  entrenched  in  her  own  grief.  She 
has  ended  by  loving  it  and  complaining  of  it.  She  is 
ingenious  in  tormenting  herself,  and  in  creating  new 
subjects  for  tears.  Abelard  is  obliged  to  watch  her 
with  the  greatest  attention. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  255 

He  forgets  nothing,  not  a  question  remains  unan- 
swered,— each  word  is  considered ;  he  does  not  stop 
there ;  he  extends  and  developes  a  sentiment  scarcely 
expressed  in  the  letter  of  Heloise;  an  objection  is 
attacked  and  demolished  ere  it  is  raised.  He  searches 
to  the  bottom  of  her  heart,  and  if  any  bitter  doubts 
conceal  there  their  serpent  heads,  he  stifles  them; 
he  chases  as  it  were  from  a  temple  all  the  thoughts 
which  might  profane  with  their  presence  the  majesty 
of  divine  love ;  his  prayer  is  imperative,  and  he  knows 
how  to  make  his  authority  obeyed. 

We  see  in  that  something  else  than  indifference, 
something  else  than  a  dry  division  and  sub-division, — 
something  else  than  a  poor  return  for  the  passion  of 
Heloise.  The  love  of  a  lover,  the  love  of  a  master, 
the  love  of  a  brother  in  Christ, — the  love  of  beauty, 
of  genius,  of  the  soul, — all  that,  makes  only  a  single 
love  in  the  heart  of  Abelard.  He  loves  Heloise  in 
the  past,  in  the  present,  in  all  time ;  and  we  applaud 
him  with  a  tenderness  mingled  with  admiration, 
when,  feeling  that  earth  is  wanting  to  him,  he  takes 
her  in  his  apostolic  arms  to  carry  her  with  him  to 
heaven. 

By  what  false  preoccupation,  by  what  untimely 
exigence,  has  Abelard  been  accused  of  coldness  !  It 
has  been  forgotten  that  he  is  older  than  Heloise,  and 
that  his  infirmities  double  the  weight  of  his  years. 
All  the  sentiments  expressed  in  his  letters  are  con- 


256  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

formed  to  his  situation.  We  find  in  them  neither 
the  ardor  of  youth  nor  the  transport  so  justly  admired 
in  those  of  Heloise,  for  they  are  there  in  their  place ; 
but  that  tender  and  profound  pity,  that  complaisant 
and  exhaustless  effusion,  that  vigilant  guard  which 
he  keeps  over  her,  those  paternal  efforts  of  a  man 
who  suppresses  his  own  grief  in  order  to  calm  that  of 
an  adored  child  which  pierces  his  soul  with  its  cries, 
— is  all  that  so  icy  ?  Is  it  not  rather  indicative  of 
the  truest,  the  noblest,  the  most  touching  love  ? 

With  Heloise  his  words  are  the  veil  and  not  the 
expression  of  his  love.  In  our  turn,  we  know  the 
words  by  the  meaning ;  we  search  for  the  caressing 
inflections  of  thought  rather  than  for  those  of  speech. 

If  we  observe  Abelard  with  care,  instead  of  accus- 
ing him  of  indifference,  we  shall  be  astonished  at  the 
progress  of  his  passion, — the  catastrophe  which  might 
have  destroyed  it  only  served  to  inflame  it.  At  that 
exile  of  happiness  he  gives  hospitality  in  his  soul  to 
larger  loves.  He  attracts  his  spouse  to  embraces 
more  intimate,  purer,  ever  enduring. 

But  Heloise  has  seen  heavens  so  deep  and  so 
radiant,  that  she  knows  not  how  to  prefer  those  that 
are  proposed. 

Pressed  on  all  sides,  she  takes  refuge  in  his  love 
for  her,  as  in  an  asylum.  Love  is  her  stronghold,  it 
suffices  for  her  defence.  With  a  single  word  she  dis- 
concerts the  already  triumphant  calculations  of  that 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  257 

Christian  logic  :  "  It  is  not  God,  it  is  you  that  I 
wish  to  please."  And  every  thing  is  again  put  in 
question.  It  is  by  her  very  love  that  she  must  be 
conquered.  Abelard  is  obliged  to  say  to  her :  "  I 
make  common  cause  with  God, — love  him  therefore." 

She  capitulates,  but  she  wishes  only  a  small 
corner  of  paradise,  for  she  fears  to  be  pleased  with 
any  thing  that  is  not  Abelard,  and  rejects  even  celes- 
tial happiness  as  a  thought  unfaithful  to  him. 

One  more  circumstance  will  justify  in  our  eyes 
the  order  of  ideas  invariably  followed  in  his  corres- 
pondence by  Abelard.  He  visited  the  Paraclete 
several  times ;  he  there  found  Heloise ;  he  found 
there  Lucie,  his  dear  mother,  as  he  calls  her.  It  was 
in  the  presence  of  these  that  his  heart  laid  aside  the 
burden  of  evil  days  and  overwhelming  thoughts. 
What  overflowings  of  soul,  what  delicate  endearments 
must  not  those  meetings  have  afforded  !  A  sad  joy, 
a  sentiment  full  of  melancholy  pleasure,  extinguished 
for  Heloise  the  two  brilliant  torches  of  the  past,  and 
her  decayed  regrets  exacted  from  Abelard  only  a 
small  effort  of  courage.  Absence  brought  back  for 
her  the  malady  ;  to  the  need  of  curing  it  must  be  re- 
ferred the  sublime  firmness  from  which  he  never  de- 
parted in  his  letters. 

It  is  then  that  he  speaks  to  her  of  immortality, 
of  an  imperishable  union  in  the  bosom  of  God  ;  and 
he  does  it  with  an  elevation  of  language,  an  authority 


258  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

of  conviction,  a  power  of  desire,  which  will  show  to 
all  ages  his  genius,  his  faith,  his  love.  In  pressing 
to  his  heart  his  mother  and  his  wife,  he  had  felt  the 
mysterious  impulses  of  a  life  that  cannot  end,  the 
revelation  of  a  world  where  the  embracing  itself  must 
be  renewed.  Having  returned  to  St.  Gildas,  he 
wrote  with  a  divine  energy  ;  for  he  had  read  in  their 
eyes  the  assurance  of  a  love  that  is  stronger  than 
death,  and  is  in  possession  of  eternity. 

Finally,  when  his  faith  is  attacked,  when  the  hur- 
ricane sounds,  when  the  winds  rage,  when  the  thun- 
derbolts of  a  new  council  hang  over  his  new  heresy, 
his  first  thought  is  for  Heloise,  his  first  care  is  to  re- 
assure her.  He  feels  that  the  moment  has  come  for 
drawing  near  to  her.  It  is  not  only  the  brother  in 
Christ  who  addresses  his  sister  in  the  same  Christ ; 
it  is  the  husband  who  speaks  to  his  wife.  His  voice 
finds  again  the  familiar  tenderness  of  ancient  days. 
He  comes  to  rest  his  head  once  more  upon  the  heart 
that  has  loved  him  so  much. 

We  think  that,  according  to  the  disposition  of 
readers,  the  letters  of  Abelard  will  always  produce 
two  very  different  impressions.  We  may  compare 
these  letters  to  a  prism  which,  at  a  distance,  conceals 
all  the  splendors  of  the  light  contained  in  its  bosom, 
but,  seen  near  by,  the  crystal  opens  its  precious  casket, 
illumines  with  its  hues,  and  spreads  over  all  things 
flaming  robes  of  gold,  of  azure  and  of  crimson. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  259 

The  thought  of  Abelard  always  takes  an  ade- 
quate form, — its  gravity  is  never  dishonored  by  a 
vain  ornament  of  words.  Like  that  of  every  poet, 
his  discourse  flows  in  measure ;  but  it  is  firm,  sober, 
tranquil,  free  from  every  terrestrial  agitation. 

But  love  has  no  prescribed  language.  Love  trans- 
figures every  thing.  The  most  indifferent  words  may 
become  with  it  magnetic  currents  in  which  two  souls 
meet, — ways  whereby  the  eye  can  follow  them, — 
bridges  made  of  a  single  hair,  over  which  they  au- 
daciously run  without  ever  deviating. 

If  one  is  fortunate  enough  to  have  a  hallucination 
of  the  heart  (qui  amant  sibi  somnia  Jingunt),  then 
that  dead  text  becomes  animated,  the  blood  and  the 
life  circulate  in  the  veins  just  now  numb  and  color- 
less ;  you  feel  their  warm  breath,  your  soul  is  flooded 
with  balm,  and,  by  a  marvel  like  those  of  history  and 
fiction,  you  see  the  rocky  words  softened,  the  rough 
shell  broken,  and  you  can  bathe  your  hands  in  fresh 
waters,  and  let  your  ravished  eyes  wander  over  unex- 
pected beauties. 

These  love-letters  purified  by  Catholic  incense, 
will  remind  you  of  the  ancient  Spanish  toils,  under 
which  Zurbaran  seems  to  gather  all  the  shades  and 
all  the  melancholies  of  earth,  in  order  to  console  them 
from  on  high  by  a  luxurious  hope,  and  by  the  splen- 
dors of  beatitude.  Grod  is  not  there,  although  we  see 
only  him  ;  man  is  alone  there,  though  we  see  him  not. 


260  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Over  those  pages,  so  nobly  refused  for  the  expression 
of  human  suffering,  rolls  invisible  tears.  All  the 
branches  of  that  myrtle,  when  you  touch  them,  sigh 
or  groan.  Stop  before  the  gladiator,  after  he  has 
been  overcome  in  the  arena.  Examine  his  face, — 
not  a  muscle  is  contracted ;  you  listen  at  his  mouth 
for  a  complaint,  an  imprecation,  a  word  which  will  be 
the  epopee  of  all  his  griefs, — the  word  does  not 
come  ;  you  hold  your  breath  ;  the  patient  is  about  to 
die,  he  is  dead you  have  heard  nothing. 

And  nevertheless,  you  find  that  all  has  not  been 
told. 

A  truth  until  then  unperceived,  has  just  been 
revealed  to  you.  The  calmness  of  the  man  appears 
to  you  more  terrible  than  a  tempest,  and  it  is  not 
without  fright  that  you  contemplate  that  impassive 
exterior,  when  you  see  within  him  bis  heart  in  agony, 
his  hopes  wounded  to  death  until  the  last,  and  his 
mind  in  tears, — all  filled  with  a  dear  image,  and  the 
rending  agonies  of  an  eternal  adieu. 

Heloise  and  Abelard  entered  upon  life  through 
high  and  brilliant  portals,  love  and  glory  ; — their 
route  was  accursed ;  and  that  no  consecration  might 
be  wanting  to  them,  to  that  of  misfortune  is  added 
that  of  sanctity. 

We  draw  near  them  with  a  lively  and  eager  curi- 
osity ;  we  would  see  the  palpitation  of  the  heart  that 
crucifies  itself,  hear  what  report  a  love  so  celebrated 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  261 

made  in  its  own  time,  and  understand  the  spirit  that 
had  the  power  to  vivify  the  tomb.  But  when  we 
come  in  contact  with  those  high  souls,  that  enter  into 
relation  with  us  only  on  those  sides  by  which  we  are 
elevated  and  ennobled,  we  feel  suddenly  penetrated 
with  respect.  In  presence  of  those  embalmed  remains 
of  a  religious  memory  and  an  eternal  hope,  it  seems 
that  the  life  of  love  and  genius,  which  animated  them 
in  times  gone  by,  comes  to  us  in  a  harmonious  wail 
and  in  tears  divine.  We  find  in  those  two  great 
initiates  of  sorrow  a  striking  image  of  humanity,  with 
its  virtues  elevated  to  heroism,  and  its  weaknesses 
sometimes  as  admirable  as  its  virtues. 


262  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


XXXI. 

"DUST  TO  DUST." 

POSTERITY,  for  the  most  part,  is  careful  to  preserve 
the  remains,  as  well  as  the  memory,  of  the  noble 
dead. 

Abelard  and  Heloise  were  at  first  buried  in  the 
same  crypt.  Three  centuries  rolled  away  ere  any  one 
thought  of  separating  the  two  lovers,  who  had  been 
so  closely  united  in  life,  whom  their  last  will  had 
united  in  death.*  Nevertheless,  in  1497,  on  account  of 
a  ridiculous  scruple,  their  bones  were  put  in  two  dif- 
ferent tombs  which  were  placed  on  opposite  sides  of 
the  choir  in  the  great  chapel  of  the  abbey.  They  re- 
mained there  about  two  centuries,  when  Marie  de  la 
Rochefoucauld  had  them  placed,  in  1630,  in  the  chapel 
of  the  Trinity. 

One  hundred  and  thirty-six  years  afterwards,  Ma- 
rie de  Roucy  de  la  Rochefoucauld  conceived  the  idea, 
at  once  pious  and  philosophic,  of  erecting  a  new  mon- 
ument to  the  memory  of  the  two  lovers,  one  of  whom 

*  Letters  of  Abelard  and  Heloise,  traduits  sur  les  manu- 
B«rit9  de  la  Bibliotheque  Royal,  par  R  Oddoul:  precede'es 
d'un  essay  Historique,  par  M.  et  Me.  Guizot,  voL  1,  p.  cviii 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  263 

had  been  the  founder  and  the  other  the  first  abbess  of 
Paraclete.  In  1766,  she  wrote  to  the  Academic  des 
Inscriptions,  asking  for  an  epitaph  with  which  to 
adorn  the  tomb  of  Abelard  and  Heloise.  Madame 
de  Roucy  de  la  Rochefoucauld,  niece  of  the  former, 
and  the  last  abbess  of  Paraclete,  caused  the  following 
epitaph  to  be  engraved  on  their  common  tomb  : 

HIO, 
SUB  KODEM  MABMORE,  JAOENT, 

HUJU8  MONASTERII 

OONDITOR,  PETRU8  AB^LARDUS, 

ET  ABBATIS8A  PRIMA,  HELOISA, 

OLIM  8TUDIIS,  INGENIO,  AMORE,  INFAUSTIS  NUPTIIS, 

ET  POENITENTIA, 
NUNO  AETEBNO,  QUOD  8PERAMU8,  FELICITATE, 

CONJUNOTI. 

PETRUS   OBIIT   XX   PRIMA   APRILIS    MOXLII, 
HELOISA,    XVn   MAU   MOLXIII. 

HERE, 
UNDER   THE    SAME    STONE,    REPOSE, 

OF   THIS   MONASTERY 

THE   FOUNDER,    PETER   ABELARD, 

AND   THE   FIRST    ABBESS,    HELOISE, 

HERETOFORE   IN   STUDY,    GENIUS,    LOVE,    INAUSPICIOUS 

MARRIAGE   AND   REPENTANCE, 
NOW,   AS   WE   HOPE,    IN   ETERNAL   HAPPINESS, 

UNITED. 

PETER   DIED   APRIL   XXI,    MCXLII. 
HELOISE,    MAY   XVII,    MOLXIII. 


264  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

All  the  convents  in  France  were  destroyed  by  a 
decree  of  1 792.  The  Paraclete  was  included  in  their 
number,  but  the  authorities  of  Nogent  made  an  ex- 
ception in  favor  of  the  two  lovers.  The  bones  of 
Abelard  and  Heloise  were  taken  from  their  resting- 
place  with  great  ceremony,  in  the  presence  of  the  cure 
of  the  parish  and  the  notables  of  the  place.  A  magnifi- 
cent procession  conducted  their  lifeless  remains  to  the 
church,  where  a  discourse  was  pronounced,  and  fune- 
ral hymns  were  sung.  Their  coffin,  in  which  their 
bones  were  separated  by  a  partition  of  lead,  were  de- 
posited in  a  vault  of  the  Chapel  of  St.  Ledger. 

Under  the  ministry  of  a  Lucien  Bonaparte,  it  was 
ordered,  in  1800,  that  the  united  remains  of  the  two 
celebrated  lovers  should  be  removed  to  tbejardin  du 
Muscc  Fran$ais,  where  M.  Alexander  Lenoir,  the 
founder  of  that  establishment,  had  a  very  elegant 
sepulchral  chapel  constructed  for  them,  out  of  the 
best  remnants  of  Paraclete  and  of  the  abbey  of  St. 
Denis. 

In  1815,  the  government  ceded  to  the  Mont-de- 
Piete  a  large  portion  of  the  ground  first  assigned  to 
the  Musee  Fran^ais,  and,  consequently,  it  was  neces- 
sary to  remove  the  new  monument  of  the  lovers,  ever 
united,  never  at  rest !  They  were  deposited  for  a 
season  in  the  third  court  of  that  national  establish- 
ment. 

In  1817,  their  ashes  were  removed  to  the  ceme- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  265 

tery  of  Mont  Louis,  in  one  of  the  halls  of  the  ancient 
house  of  Pere  Lachaise,  which  served  them  as  an  asy- 
lum about  five  months.  On  the  sixth  of  November, 
the  same  year,  they  were  placed,  in  presence  of  the 
commissary  of  police,  in  the  cemetery  of  Pere  La- 
chaise.  Lovers  may  there  find  their  place  of  sojourn 
by  inquiring  for  the  chapelle  sepulcrale  dj  Heloise  et 
d'Abailard. 

M.  Lenoir  says,  speaking  of  Heloise :  "  The  in- 
spection of  the  bones  of  her  body,  which  we  have  ex- 
amined with  care,  has  convinced  us  that  she  was,  like 
Abelard,  of  large  stature,  and  finely  proportioned. 

"  I  have  remarked,  as  well  as  M.  Delaunay,  in  re- 
gard to  the  stature  of  Abelard,  that  his  bones  are 
strong  and  very  large.  The  head  of  Heloise  is  finely 
proportioned;  the  forehead,  smoothly  formed,  well 
rounded,  and  in  harmony  with  the  other  parts  of  the 
face,  still  expresses  perfect  beauty.  This  head,  which 
was  so  well  organized,  has  been  moulded  under  my 
own  eyes  for  the  execution  of  the  bust  of  Heloise, 
which  has  been  modelled  by  M.  de  Seine." 

We  must  now  leave  thee,  noble  Heloise;  and, 
somehow,  the  very  thought  that  we  have  completed 
our  pilgrimage  with  thee,  gives  us  an  indescribable 
heaviness  of  heart.  Willingly  would  we  journey  to 
the  ends  of  the  earth,  if  we  could  learn  some  magic 
art,  by  which  to  summon  thee  in  living  reality  before 

us  just  as  imagination  now  pictures  thee.     Thy  pres- 
12 


266  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

ence  is  queenly,  thy  brow  is  like  that  given  by 
sculptors  of  old  to  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom ;  thy  voice 
is  softly  tremulous  and  all-informed  with  melody  ;  the 
"  nectared  sweets  "  of  sentiment  flow  from  thy  tongue ; 
the  "honey  dews  of  thought"  distil  from  thy  quivering 
lips,  and  in  thy  deep  clear  eyes  so  much  is  seen  that 
speech  cannot  reveal.  Remain  with  us  for  ever.  Alas  ! 
we  are  clasping  a  phantom,  and  before  us — just  retri- 
bution ! — there  is  nothing  but  a  skull,  with  its  tooth- 
less, bony  jaws,  with  its  bottomless  eye-sockets  instead 
of  eyes — and  that,  too,  is  a  phantom  ! 

Bones  may  last  for  a  season,  but  dust  will  not  be 
cheated  out  of  its  kindred  dust. 

My  brother,  let  thy  going  forth  be  with  reverence, 
for  thou  art  treading  upon  the  decayed  hearts  of  those 
who  have  loved  as  we  love,  who  have  struggled  as  we 
are  struggling,  who  have  sinned  as  we  sin,  who  have 
vanished  as  we  at  length  shall  vanish.  Above  thee  is 
arched  God's  great  sky,  over  thee  the  night  stars 
keep  silent  watch ;  in  all  and  through  all  is  the  spirit 
that  is  soul  of  thy  soul,  life  of  thy  life ;  and  elsewhere 
than  in  the  flesh  are  intelligences  more  nearly  akin 
to  us  than  we  think. 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  267 

XXXII. 

KECAPITULATION  IN  THE  LANGUAGE  OF  A  POET.« 

LOVE  is  one  of  the  leading  influences  of  our  nature ; 
and  when  this  sentiment  is  elevated  by  female  devo- 
tion, when  it  is  irradiated  by  beauty,  excused  by  weak- 
ness, expiated  by  misfortune,  transformed  by  repent- 
ance, sanctified  by  religion,  rendered  popular  through 
a  long  epoch  by  genius,  perpetuated  by  constancy  on 
earth,  and  aspirations  of  immortality  hereafter — this 
passion  almost  resolves  itself  into  virtue,  and  raises  to 
the  level  of  heroic  saints,  two  lovers,  whose  adven- 
tures became  the  theme,  and  their  tears  the  sorrows 
of  an  age.  Such  is  the  story,  or  rather  the  poem  of 
Heloise  and  Abelard.  During  eight  centuries  no  other 
has  so  profoundly  touched  the  human  heart.  What- 
ever moves  men  long  and  deeply,  forms  a  portion 
of  their  history ;  for  human  nature  is  equally 
compounded  of  mind  and  feeling.  All  that  softens, 
improves.  Admiration  and  pity  affect  the  heart,  and 
the  heart  is  the  safest  and  strongest  organ  of  virtue. 
These  two  lives  comprise  a  single  one ;  they  are  so 
interwoven  that  each  existence  is  a  perpetual  rebound 
*  Lainartine. 


268  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

of  the  other ;  the  same  event,  the  same  sensation,  re- 
flected back  again  in  a  double  echo,  produces  the 
same  undivided  interest.  Let  us  now  commence  our 
narration. 

Peter  Abelard  was  the  son  of  a  knight  of  Brittany, 
named  Beranger,  whose  family  had  long  possessed,  in 
the  neighborhood  of  Nantes,  the  castle  and  village 
of  Palais.  Beranger  exercised,  like  all  the  gentle- 
men of  his  day,  the  noble  trade  of  war.  His  son  was 
brought  up  to  arms;  but  the  piety  of  his  race,  at- 
tested by  the  religious  habit  which  Beranger,  his  wife 
and  daughters  assumed  in  their  old  age,  associated 
with  the  military  education  of  the  youthful  Abelard, 
the  study  of  letters,  philosophy,  and  theology.  The 
leading,  and  the  only  intellectual  profession  of  that 
period,  the  Church,  attracted  to  her  ranks  all  the 
young  men  who  felt  within  themselves  the  seeds  of 
poetry,  or  eloquence,  the  love  of  fame,  and  the  am- 
bition of  mental  supremacy.  Abelard  was  more  hap- 
pily endowed  than  any  other  individual  of  his  time. 
He  disdained  the  rude  life  of  a  mere  warrior,  and 
resigned  to  his  brothers  his  rights  of  primogeniture 
over  the  domains  and  vassals  of  the  house.  He 
quitted  the  paternal  mansion,  and  went  from  school 
to  school,  from  master  to  master,  gathering  all  those 
buried  treasures  of  Greek  and  Roman  literature,  which 
France  and  Italy  had  begun  to  disinter  from  manu- 
scripts, to  restore  to  light,  and  to  worship  as  the  profane 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  269 

mysteries  of  human  genius.  His  warm  heart  and 
fervid  imagination  were  not  satisfied  with  the  dead 
languages :  he  wrote  and  spoke  in  Greek  and  Latin, 
but  he  sang  in  French. 

The  verses,  for  which  he  composed  the  music  him- 
self, that  the  passion  by  which  they  were  inspired 
should  convey  its  full  effect  to  the  soul  by  two  senses 
at  a  time,  became  the  manual  of  all  poets.  They 
spread  with  the  rapidity  of  an  echo,  which  multiplies 
its  own  sound ;  they  formed  the  conversation  of  men 
of  letters,  the  delight  of  women,  the  secret  language 
of  lovers,  the  interpreters  of  undeclared  sentiments, 
the  popular  songs  of  cities,  castles,  cottages ;  they 
carried  the  name  of  the  young  musician  and  familiar 
poet  throughout  the  provinces  of  France.  He  enjoyed 
a  personal  fame  during  the  spring  of  life,  in  the  secret 
souls  of  all  who  loved,  dreamed,  sighed,  or  sang.  A 
melodious  voice  which  gave  animation  to  language 
and  music ;  a  youth  precocious  in  celebrity ;  a  Gre- 
cian regularity  of  features,  a  tall  and  graceful  figure,  a 
noble  bearing,  a  natural  modesty,  in  which  the  bash- 
fulness  of  early  years  blushed  for  the  maturity  of  tal- 
ent— all  these  qualities,  combined  in  Abelard  attrac- 
tion with  renown.  He  was  ever  present  to  the  eyes, 
the  ears,  the  hearts  of  the  women  who  had  seen 
him,  or  had  even  heard  his  name  pronounced.  It  was 
thus  that  Heloise  recalled  his  image  to  her  heart  long- 
after  the  ruin  of  her  illusions  and  her  love. 


270  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

But  in  his  early  verses,  he  sang  of  feelings  which  he 
had  not  yet  experienced  personally.  His  love  sonnets 
were  flights  of  imagination,  imitated  from  the  ancient 
poets.  They  breathed  the  accents  of  the  heart,  but 
not  the  heart  of  the  writer.  He  lived  apart  from  the 
world,  in  study,  in  piety,  and  in  the  perspective  of  future 
glory.  His  songs  were  his  recreation  ;  philosophy  and 
eloquence  exclusively  enchained  his  faculties.  His  lan- 
guage softened  by  poetry ;  his  eloquence  harmonized 
by  music,  the  rich,  spontaneous  fertility  of  his  im- 
agination ;  his  memory  fed  and  strengthened  by  uni- 
versal reading ;  the  brilliancy,  propriety,  and  novelty 
of  the  images  into  which  he  sculptured  his  ideas,  to 
render  them  palpable  to  his  auditors ;  such  were  the 
endowments  which  made  this  young  man  (seated  at 
the  feet  of  the  most  celebrated  chairs  of  the  University 
of  Paris)  the  master  of  masters,  and  the  popular  orator 
of  the  schools.  In  that  day  the  schools  constituted  the 
forum  of  the  human  race.  They  were  all  that  knowl- 
edge, science,  religion,  opinion,  the  press,  the  tribune, 
became  in  after  ages.  The  true  word,  scarcely  recover- 
ed, governed  the  world,  but  under  the  exclusive  domin- 
ation of  the  Church.  Eloquence,  philosophy,  and  faith, 
were  only  exercised  on  the  same  recurring  texts. 
There  was  one  continued  struggle  in  disputes,  which 
are  now  unintelligible,  to  produce  the  triumph  of  reve- 
lation by  arguments  drawn  from  profane  reason, 
and  to  call  in  Plato  and  the  ancient  sages  to  bear  tes- 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  27 1 

timony  to  Christ  and  the  Apostles.  It  is  easy  to  un- 
derstand to  what  dialectic  subtleties  the  minds  of  men 
were  sharpened  by  such  disquisitions.  But  these  con- 
troversies, for  other  views  of  Providence,  are  some- 
times intended  as  exercises  to  strengthen  human  intel- 
lect, and  to  supply  the  world  with  high  examples  of 
talent  and  reputation. 

The  young  orator  followed  the  stream  of  his  age. 
He  ascended  the  tribune  of  the  day,  the  pulpits  of  the 
public  schools,  round  which  the  people  crowded  with 
greater  eagerness,  as  they  were  only  emerging  from 
profound  ignorance,  and  expected  the  approach  of  some 
unknown  light,  just  then  beginning  to  appear.  Abe- 
lard,  at  first  an  humble  and  docile  disciple,  raised  him- 
self by  degrees,  on  the  applause  and  encouragement  of 
his  listeners,  to  a  level  with  the  oracles  of  the  schools, 
and  soon  began  to  dispute  and  oppose  their  dogmas. 
Finally  he  subverted  them  all,  founded  a  new  college 
of  philosophy  at  Melun,  carried  away  in  his  train  the 
young  students,  fanaticized  by  his  genius;  by  his 
increasing  popularity  spread  consternation  among  his 
rivals,  who  were  almost  deserted  in  Paris ;  consumed 
himself  with  the  fire  he  had  kindled  in  public  imagin- 
ation ;  excited  the  envy  of  the  learned  in  the  Univer- 
sity and  the  Church ;  retired  for  two  years  to  the  ob- 
scurity of  his  native  district,  to  fortify  his  powers  ;  and 
reappeared  in  Paris,  stronger,  more  celebrated,  and 
more  controlling  than  before.  He  pitched  his  camp, 


272  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

or  rather  liis  school,  on  the  eminence,  then  almost 
solitary,  on  which  now  stands  the  church  of  St.  Gene- 
vieve. 

This  became  the  Mount  Aventine  of  a  people  of  dis- 
ciples, quitting  the  ancient  seminaries,  to  imbibe  eager- 
ly the  fresh  and  fearless  eloquence  of  Abelard.  Each 
of  his  followers  paid  a  small  fee  to  the  philosopher — 
the  humble  tribute  of  a  nation  thirsting  for  truth. 
This  salary,  multiplied  by  the  incalculable  number  of 
contributors,  elevated  the  fortune  of  Abelard  as  high 
as  his  fame.  He  was  in  the  flower  of  his  years,  of  his 
glory,'  of  his  virtue ;  for  up  to  this  period  he  had  in- 
dulged in  no  passion  except  his  passion  for  truth  and 
faith.  The  pride  so  natural  to  one  who  is  looked  up  to 
by  men,  and  the  seductive  charm  attendant  on  female 
admiration,  exalted  and  weakened  him  at  the  same 
moment.  A  double  snare  awaited  him  as  he  reached 
the  maturity  of  his  genius  and  reputation.  He  was 
then  thirty-eight,  lie  reigned  by  eloquence  over  the 
spirit  of  youth  ;  by  beauty,  over  the  regard  of  women ; 
by  his  love-songs,  which  penetrated  all  hearts ;  and  by 
his  musical  melodies,  which  were  repeated  in  every 
mouth.  Let  us  imagine  in  a  single  man,  the  first  ora- 
tor, the  first  philosopher,  the  first  poet,  the  first  mu- 
sician of  his  age ;  Antinoiis,  Cicero,  Petrarch,  Schubert, 
united  in  one  living  celebrity,  and  we  can  then  form 
an  idea  of  the  popularity  of  Abelard  at  this  period  of 
his  life. 


ABELARD    AND    IIELOISE.  273 


At  that  time  there  dwelt  in  Paris  a  rich  and  power- 
ful canon  of  the  cathedral,  Fulbert,  who  resided  in 
the  learned  quarter  of  the  city.  He  had  a  niece  liv- 
ing with  him  (some  say  she  was  his  daughter),  whom 
he  loved  with  paternal  affection.  This  niece,  aged 
eighteen,  and  consequently  twenty  years  younger  than 
Abelard,  was  already  much  noticed  in  Paris  for  her 
beauty  and  early  genius.  Her  uncle,  the  canon,  had 
treated  her  with  all  those  blind  indulgences,  which, 
while  they  adorned  a  chosen  nature,  with  every  gift  of 
intelligence  and  education,  he  saw  not,  in  the  weak- 
ness of  age,  would  prepare  a  more  signal  victory  for 
seduction,  love,  and  misfortune.  Her  name  was  Helo- 
ise.  The  medallions  and  the  statue  which  perpetuate 
her,  according  to  contemporary  traditions,  and  the 
casts  taken  after  death  in  her  sepulchre,  represent  a 
young  female,  tall  in  stature,  and  exquisitely  formed. 
An  oval  head,  slightly  depressed  towards  the  temples 
by  the  conflict  of  thought ;  a  high  and  smooth  fore- 
head, where  intelligence  revelled  without  impediment, 
like  a  ray  of  light,  unchecked  by  an  obstructing  angle, 
on  the  smooth  surface  of  a  marble  slab;  eyes  deeply 
set  within  their  arch,  and  the  balls  of  which  reflected 
the  azure  tint  of  heaven ;  a  small  nose,  slightly  raised 
towards  the  nostrils,  such  as  sculpture  models  from 
nature  in  the  statues  of  women  immortalized  by  the 
feelings  of  the  heart;  a  mouth  where  breathed,  be- 
tween brilliant  teeth,  the  smiles  of  genius  and  the 
12* 


274  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tenderness  of  sympathy  ;  a  short  chin,  slightly  dim- 
pled in  the  middle,  as  if  by  the  finger  of  reflection  of- 
ten placed  upon  the  lips ;  a  long,  flexible  neck,  which 
carried  the  head  as  the  lotus  bears  the  flower,  while 
undulating  with  the  motion  of  the  wave  ;  falling  shoul- 
ders, gracefully  moulded,  and  blending  into  the  same 
line  with  the  arms;  slender  fingers,  flowing  curls, 
delicate,  anatomical  articulations,  the  feet  of  a  goddess 
upon  her  pedestal,  such  is  the  statue,  by  which  we 
may  judge  of  the  woman!  Let  the  life,  the  compk'x- 
ion,  the  look,  the  attitude,  the  youth,  the  languor,  the 
passion,  the  paleness,  the  blush,  the  thought,  the  feel- 
ing, the  accent,  the  smile,  the  tears  be  restored  to  the 
skeleton  of  this  other  Inez  de  Castro,  and  we  shall 
again  look  on  Heloise.  Her  features,  according  to  the 
historians  of  the  time,  and  Abelard  himself,  were  less 
striking  to  the  eye  from  beauty  than  from  expression, 
that  graceful  physiognomy  of  the  heart,  which  draws, 
invites,  and  compels  a  reciprocation  of  the  love  it  offers 
— supreme  beauty,  far  superior  to  the  charms  which 
command  admiration  only.  Here  we  may  use  the  words 
of  Abelard  :  "  Her  renown,"  says  he,  "  had  spread 
throughout  France.  All  that  could  seduce  the  imagin- 
ation of  men  presented  itself  to  me.  Heloise  became 
the  adored  object  of  my  dreams,  and  I  persuaded  my- 
self that  I  could  win  her  affection.  I  wras  then  so  cel- 
ebrated, my  youth  and  beauty  so  enhanced  my  fame, 
that  I  thought  it  impossible  any  woman  could  reject 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  2*75 

my  proffered  love.  I  abandoned  myself  to  the  intoxi- 
cation of  hope,  the  more  readily  that  Heloise  herself 
was  accomplished  in  letters,  in  the  sciences,  and  the 
arts.  A  poetical  correspondence  had  already  com- 
menced between  us,  and  I  ventured  to  write  to  her 
with  greater  freedom  than  I  could  have  spoken.  I 
yielded  entirely  to  this  passion,  and  sought  every  pos- 
sible means  of  establishing  familiar  relations  and  op- 
portunities of  intercourse." 

Nothing  was  more  easy  of  accomplishment.  The 
uncle  and  niece,  without  the  knowledge  of  Abelard, 
conspired  to  assist  him  ;  the  niece  by  her  charms,  the 
uncle  by  his  pride.  The  friendship  of  such  an  illus- 
trious man  was  a  distinction  for  any  family.  Abelard, 
through  mutual  friends,  intimated  to  Fulbert  that  the 
care  of  his  domestic  affairs  interfered  with  his  studies 
and  predominating  love  of  learning,  and  that  he  wished 
to  seek  the  hospitality  of  an  honorable  and  enlightened 
family,  where  he  might  live  like  a  son  under  the  roof 
of  his  father.  Fulbert,  overjoyed  and  flattered  by 
these  proposals,  at  once  offered  his  hearth  to  Abelard. 
He  should  reap,  he  said,  the  double  advantage  of  inti- 
macy with  the  first  man  of  the  age,  and  finish  the  ed- 
ucation of  his  niece  without  further  expense.  She,  too, 
by  constant  conversation  with  the  oracle  of  his  day, 
would  derive  virtue  and  knowledge  from  their  source. 

We  can  readily  believe,  and  the  fact  is  attested  by 
the  complaisance  and  subsequent  rage  of  Fulbert,  that 


27G  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

the  uncle,  an    enthusiastic  admirer  of   Abelard,  and 
hoping  to  win  for  his  niece  the  only  husband  in 
opinion  worthy  of  her,  lent  himself  with  paternal  in- 
terest to  an  intercourse  from  which  might  spring  the 
mutual  attachment  and  union  of  these  young  hearts. 

Be  this  as  it  may,  Abelard  became  an  inmate  in  the 
house  of  Fulbert.  This  domestic  familiarity,  author- 
ized by  the  uncle  of  the  fair  disciple,  offered  to  both 
the  opportunity,  and,  we  may  almost  say,  imposed  the 
necessity,  of  mutual  love.  Far  from  objecting  to  a 
close  intimacy  between  the  master  and  his  pupil,  Ful- 
bert entreated  Abelard  to  impart  to  his  niece  all  his 
secrets  of  learning,  and  all  his  rare  acquirements  in 
oratory,  poetry,  and  theology;  so  as  to  complete  in 
her  the  intellectual  prodigy  which  nature  had  com- 
menced, and  France  admired  with  unwonted  astonish- 
ment in  a  woman.  He  yielded  up  to  him  entirely  his 
paternal  authority  over  Heloise,  and,  in  accordance 
with  the  rude  discipline  of  the  age,  authorized  him 
even  to  correct  her  with  blows,  if  she  failed  either  in 
obedience  or  attention.  In  a  word,  he  reduced 
Heloise  to  a  state  of  mental  thraldom,  and  constituted 
Abelard  an  absolute  master.  Heloise  was  readily  dis- 
posed to  acknowledge  not  only  a  preceptor  but  a 
divinity,  in  the  handsomest  and  most  celebrated  man 
of  his  age.  Her  rapid  progress  kept  pace  with  the 
wishes  of  her  uncle.  She  labored  no  longer  for  the 
world,  but  for  Abelard  alone ;  her  sole  ambition  cen- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  277 

trecl  in  the  wish  to  please  him.  Nature,  love,  and 
genius,  combined  to  render  this  young  girl  the  wonder 
of  her  time. 

Abelard  became  intoxicated  with  his  avocation. 
Two  souls,  tempted  by  such  opportunities,  could  not 
fail  to  fall  into  the  snare  which  want  of  foresight  or 
complicity  had  spread  for  them  under  such  specious 
pretexts  and  such  alluring  indulgences.  The  external 
world  disappeared  before  them — they  loved.  Abelard, 
who  now  thought  of  Heloise  alone,  proclaimed  his 
passion  in  poems,  in  which  the  verses  and  the  music, 
tempered  in  the  same  fire,  spread  the  name  of  Heloise 
as  a  heavenly  secret  divulged  to  the  earth,  and  which 
the  whole  world  confided  to  one  another  by  repeating 
these  divine  songs,  until  at  last  they  reached  the  ears 
of  Fulbert  himself. 

But  Fulbert  affected  not  to  hear,  or  to  disbelieve, 
this  profanation  of  his  domestic  hearth.  He  replied, 
that  Abelard  was,  by  his  genius  and  piety,  too  much 
elevated  beyond  ordinary  mortals  to  descend,  even 
under  the  seductions  of  love,  from  the  paradise  of 
science  and  glory  which  his  exalted  intellect  shared 
with  the  angels.  Perhaps,  also,  he  expected  from  day 
to  day,  that  Abelard,  conquered  by  an  increasing 
charm,  would  demand  of  him  the  hand  of  his  pupil, 
which  he  would  have  been  too  happy  to  accord.  In 
the  mean  time,  Abelard,  divided  between  his  passion 
for  Heloise  and  his  love  of  fame,  hesitated  to  declare 


278  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

himself.  He  had  feared,  lest,  by  avowing  the  influence 
of  earthly  beauty,  he  should  sink  in  the  eyes  of  the 
world  from  the  reputation  for  purity  and  Platonic  self- 
command,  which  an  ethereal  philosophy  had  estab- 
lished for  him  in  early  youth.  He  was  unwilling,  M 
to  renounce,  by  marriage,  the  prospective  dignr 
honors,  and  fortune  which  the  Church  held  out  to  him, 
and  which  he  had  already  propitiated  by  some  noviti- 
atory  ceremonies.  His  disciples  no  longer  recognizi  <1 
their  master.  In  his  heart,  love  combated  painfully 
against  his  genius.  His  friends  complained  loudly  of 
his  decline  ;  the  languor  of  his  passion  had  affected  his 
eloquence ;  the  fire  of  his  soul  evaporated  in  sighs,  and 
his  lessons  contained  only  cinders.  He  felt  so  unlike 
what  he  had  once  been,  that  he  gave  up  unprepared 
discourses,  in  which  his  lips  reflected  nothing  but  the 
image  and  name  of  Ileloise.  He  was  compelled  to 
learn  by  heart  the  lectures  he  had  formerly  extempo- 
rized, and  to  repeat  his  own  compositions,  lest  he 
should  fall  in  public  estimation.  His  rivals  and  his 
enemies  triumphed.  He  was  pointed  at  with  the 
finger  of  scorn,  as  a  wreck  of  himself;  quoted  as  a  re- 
proach and  scandal  to  human  weakness,  and  trampled 
under  foot  as  a  deity  hurled  from  his  pedestal. 
Heloise  was  more  afflicted  than  Abelard  at  this  degra- 
dation of  one  she  adored  for  himself  alone.  She  en- 
treated him  to  sacrifice  her  to  his  fame ;  to  permit  IUT 
to  adore  him  as  a  divinity,  who  receives  the  heart  and 


ABELARD  AND  HKLOISE.  279 

incense  of  mortals,  without  other  intercourse  with  his 
worshippers  than  the  homage  which  they  offer  him  ; 
to  love  her  no  longer,  if  this  love  diminished  his  rep- 
utation by  a  single  ray ;  or,  if  the  disinterested  affec- 
tion of  Heloise  had  become  a  necessity  and  a  consola- 
tion to  his  existence,  to  reduce  her  to  the  condition  of 
those  women  despised  by  the  world,  whose  sentiments 
are  equally  unconsecrated  by  religion  and  law — slaves 
of  the  heart,  never  liberated  by  the  title  of  wives.  The 
contempt  of  the  universe,  endured  for  Abelard,  was, 
she  declared,  the  only  glory  to  which  she  aspired. 
Shame,  at  such  a  price,  would  constitute  her  pride. 

Abelard,  after  lamentable  hesitation,  could  neither 
determine  to  accept  this  suicide  of  Heloise,  nor  openly 
to  declare  his  passion  before  the  world.  He  still  con- 
tinued to  reside  under  the  roof  of  Fulbert.  Dastardly 
at  the  same  time  towards  affection  and  virtue,  he 
floated  between  two  weaknesses,  and  evinced  neither 
the  courage  of  love  nor  that  of  glory.  In  this 
instance,  as  in  all  others,  the  heart  of  the  woman  was 
manly,  the  heart  of  the  man,  feminine.  But  his  infat- 
uation, meanwhile,  nourished  itself  upon  these 
agonies.  Fulbert,  justly  irritated  by  a  silence  which 
resembled  contempt,  and  which  rendered  his  hospital- 
ity suspicious,  closed  his  doors  against  the  offender. 
This  separation  tore  the  heart  of  Heloise,  and  humil- 
iated that  of  Abelard.  Neither  the  master  nor  the 
scholar  could  renounce  a  life  in  which  the  looks,  the 


280  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

conversation,  the  studies,  the  songs,  the  thoughts  of 
both  had  blended  two  into  a  single  soul.  They  con- 
trived secret  meetings,  a  mysterious  intercourse  with 
which  Fulbert  was  deeply  enraged.  Abelard  carried 
Ileloise  away,  and  conducted  her  with  all  respect  to 
Nantes,  to  his  paternal  mansion,  where  he  confided  her 
as  his  wife  to  the  affection  of  his  own  sister.  Return- 
ing immediately  to  Paris,  he  threw  himself  at  the  feet 
of  Fulbert,  implored  his  forgiveness,  and  obtained  by 
contrition  the  hand  of  his  niece.  Ileloise  pardoned 
and  restored  at  once  to  her  uncle  and  her  lover,  be- 
came secretly  the  spouse  of  Abelard.  "After  a  night 
passed  in  prayer,"  says  he,  "  in  one  of  the  churches  of 
Paris,  on  the  following  morning  we  received  the  nup- 
tial blessing  in  the  presence  of  the  uncle  of  Ileloise, 
and  of  several  mutual  friends.  We  then  retired,  with- 
out observation  or  noise,  that  this  union,  known  only 
to  God  and  a  few  intimates,  should  bring  neither  shame 
nor  prejudice  to  my  renown." 

The  newly-married  pair — their  happiness  unknown 
to  everybody — affected  thenceforth  to  be  seldom  seen 
together,  and  labored  to  extinguish  all  preceding 
rumors  of  their  attachment.  The  world,  for  the  mo- 
ment, was  deceived,  and  Abelard  enjoyed  together  the 
delights  of  love  and  the  return  of  his  reputation.  But 
the  servants  of  Fulbert,  necessarily  acquainted  with 
his  secret  visits,  noised  abroad  the  circumstance  of 
the  marriage.  The  envious  detractors  of  Abelard 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  281 

triumphed  in  liis  weakness,  and  accused  him  of  having 
sacrificed  philosophy,  eloquence,  and  fame  to  a  second 
Delilah.  His  pride  took  offence;  he  denied  his  ties, 
as  if  they  had  been  a  disgrace.  The  generous  Heloise 
herself,  preferring  the  glory  of  her  lover  to  her  own 
honor,  proclaimed  and  encouraged  the  assertion  that 
she  was  only  united  to  Abelard  by  admiration  and 
love,  and  cast  a  stain  upon  her  own  virtue  to  exalt  the 
virtue  of  her  husband.  These  reports,  so  offensive  to 
Fulbert,  induced  him  to  utter  bitter  and  merited  re- 
proaches against  his  niece,  whose  devoted  falsehood 
had  thus  dishonored  his  blood.  Abelard,  dreading  the 
resentment  of  her  uncle,  snatched  her  once  more  from 
the  guardianship  of  Fulbert,  and  conveyed  her  to  Ar- 
genteuil,  a  village  near  Paris,  where  he  placed  her  in  a 
monastery  of  women.  These  monasteries,  like  the 
altars  of  antiquity,  afforded  the  right  of  inviolable 
sanctity  to  all  unmarried  females  or  wives  who  passed 
their  threshold.  Here  he  persuaded  her  to  take  the 
white  veil  of  a  novice,  without  yet  pronouncing  the 
irrevocable  vows.  He  devoted  himself  to  a  monastic 
life  and  the  priesthood,  and  as  soon  as  he  was  invested 
with  this  holy  character,  with  his  own  hands  he  placed 
on  Heloise  the  habit  of  a  professed  nun,  cut  off  her 
hair,  and  yielded  her  up  to  God,  having  neither  the 
courage  to  claim  her  as  his  wife,  nor  to  leave  her  in 
the  world,  which  he  had  renounced  forever.  Heloise, 
happy  in  giving  up  her  life  to  him  to  whom  she  had 


282  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

already  abandoned  her  honor,  submitted  without  a 
murmur,  as  the  victim  who  voluntarily  places  herself 
on  the  sacrificial  altar.  Every  thing  was  acceptable  to 
her,  even  the  punishment  she  underwent  by  the  elec- 
tion, and  through  the  love,  or  rather  through  the 
pride  of  her  husband.  The  gates  of  the  convent  of 
Argenteuil  were  closed  upon  the  Sappho  of  the 
eleventh  century.  Beauty,  genius,  affection,  all  were 
buried  in  those  catacombs;  and  during  fifteen  years, 
the  best  years  of  the  immured  sufferer,  neither  re- 
proaches, regrets,  nor  sighs,  were  heard  from  within 
that  living  monument. 

Abelard,  free  and  purified  in  the  eyes  of  his  fol- 
lowers, resumed  with  fresh  ardor  and  brilliancy  the 
course  of  his  lectures,  and  the  empire  of  his  popu- 
larity. But  the  anger  of  Fulbert  brooded  over  ven- 
geance. Thrice  foiled  in  his  tenderness  for  his  niece 
by  the  seduction,  the  perfidy,  and  baseness  of  Abe- 
lard,  he  saw  snatched  from  him  by  the  same  hand  the 
company  of  his  beloved  pupil,  the  reputation  of  his 
family,  his  honor,  and  his  happiness.  He  had  edu- 
cated with  so  much  solicitude  that  prodigy  of  her  sex, 
only  to  see  her  despised  by  the  selected  husband  to 
whom  he  had  resigned  her,  tainted  as  a  concubine,  re- 
pudiated, contemned  in  her  devoted  affection,  and 
finally  shut  up  as  a  penftent  in  a  monastery ;  cut  off 
in  the  flower  of  her  youth  from  the  number  of  the 
living,  to  keep  away  false  shame  from  the  forehead  of 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  283 

an  ungrateful  seducer,  and  condemned  to  feed  on  her 
own  tears,  while  he  was  hailed  by  the  acclamations  of 
the  century.  We  do  not  justify  the  vindictive  feel- 
ings of  an  outraged  father,  we  only  endeavor  to  ex- 
plain them.  He  had  forgiven  all,  to  behold  Heloise 
married  to  the  first  genius  of  his  age,  and  after  being 
acknowledged  as  a  wife,  she  was  now  denied.  De- 
spair excited  hatred,  and  hatred  began  to  ponder  on 
crime.  The  gates  of  Abelard's  house  were  opened  one 
night,  through  the  purchased  treachery  of  his  domes- 
tics ;  executioners,  directed  and  paid  by  Fulbert,  sur- 
prised him  in  his  sleep ;  they  overwhelmed  him  with 
cruel  insults,  and  left  him  degraded  by  his  punish- 
ment. Humiliation  and  remorse,  worse  than  the  in- 
flicted revenge,  made  Abelard  detest  the  life  which 
his  enemies  had  spared  as  an  additional  pang.  The 
light  of  day  became  hateful  to  him.  His  despair  at 
this  unpunished  outrage  equalled  the  vainglory  by 
which  he  had  been  carried  on  to  the  base  ingratitude 
of  sacrificing  Heloise ;  his  only  remaining  object  was 
to  disappear  from  the  world  he  had  filled  with  his 
renown,  and  which  now  resounded  with  nothing  but 
his  shame. 

"  I  called  to  mind  painfully,"  he  writes,  "  the  bril- 
liant reputation  by  which  I  was  surrounded  on  the  eve 
of  that  fatal  day,  and  the  prompt  ignominy  by  which 
my  glory  was  extinguished.  I  acknowledged  the  just 
chastisement  of  Heaven — the  just  retaliation  by  which 


284  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

the  man  I  had  betrayed,  betrayed  me  in  his  turn.  I 
already  heard  the  malicious  exultations  of  my  ene- 
mies, the  delight  of  my  rivals  at  this  retributive  dis- 
pensation. I  felt  that  I  could  no  longer  appear  in 
public  without  being  pointed  at  as  an  object  of  igno- 
minious pity.  The  sense  of  my  degraded  state  covered 
me  with  such  confusion  that  I  am  forced  to  confess, 
shame  rather  than  pity,  drove  me  into  the  solitude  of 
the  cloister.  I  wished,  however,  before  tearing  my- 
self from  the  world,  to  remove  Heloise  from  it  irrevo- 
cably. By  my  direction  she  pronounced  the  eternal 
vows.  Thus,  both  of  us,  on  the  same  day,  embraced 
together  the  monastic  life,  she  at  Argenteuil,  I  in  the 
abbey  of  St.  Denis.  Moved  by  her  youth  and  beauty, 
the  companions  of  Heloise  endeavored  in  vain  to  win 
her  from  the  sacrifice  she  was  induced  to  consummate. 
She  replied  (with  tears,  shed  for  her  husband,  not  for 
herself),  by  those  verses  which  the  Roman  poet  places 
in  the  mouth  of  Cornelia,  the  widow  of  Pompey  the 
Great :  '  Oh,  my  illustrious  partner,  thou  whose  bed 
I  was  not  worthy  of  partaking,  it  is  my  evil  destiny 
which  weighs  upon  thine !  Why,  wretch  that  I  am, 
have  I  formed  the  bonds  which  have  drawn  on  thy 
ruin  ?  Receive,  in  the  holocaust  of  thy  wife,  the  ex- 
piation of  the  misfortunes  my  love  has  brought  upon 
thee !'  Having  pronounced  these  words,  broken  by 
sighs,  Heloise  rushed  to  the  altar,  as  if  precipitat- 
ing herself  into  an  abyss;  she  seized  the  funeral 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  285 

veil,  already  consecrated  by  the  bishop,  and  dedicated 
herself  from  that  moment,  before  the  assembled 
people,  to  the  service  of  the  Deity  who  received  her 
oath." 

Such  is  the  recital  of  the  sacrifice  of  Heloise,  given 
by  Abelard  himself.  The  shadow  of  the  convent  in- 
closed her  for  many  years ;  a  concealed,  but  an  unex- 
tinguished  flame. 

Abelard  carried  to  the  monastery  of  St.  Denis 
his  inward  uneasiness,  his  talents  strengthened  by 
concentrated  study,  his  ambition,  which  had  only 
changed  its  object,  and  the  intolerant  zeal  of  refor- 
mation, by  which  new  proselytes  too  often  expect  to 
redeem  their  wanderings.  The  relaxed  monks  o£  St. 
Denis,  and  the  abbot  who  permitted  and  shared  their 
irregularities,  became  irritated  at  his  censures,  and 
compelled  him  to  remove  his  severe  innovations  to  a 
neighboring  and  dependent  establishment  at  Deuil. 
He  there  resumed  his  pulpit  of  philosophy,  and  filled 
once  more  the  schools  and  the  church  with  the  report 
of  new  doctrines  in  matters  of  faith.  The  Church  be- 
came indignant  at  his  boldness,  as  the  monks  had 
been  offended  by  his  reproofs.  Some  subtle  essays  on 
the  Unity  and  Trinity,  in  which  he  endeavored  to  ex- 
plain that  mystery  without  appealing  to  faith  in  aid  of 
human  reasoning,  sufficed  as  a  pretext  to  the  enemies 
leagued  against  this  active  innovator.  He  was  sum- 
moned before  a  council  at  Soissons  to  render  an 


286  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

account  of  his  doctrines,  and  solemnly  condemned. 
To  expiate  the  error,  he  was  shut  up  in  the  cloistered 
monastery  of  St.  Medard,  where  he  gave  himself  up 
to  despair.  "  The  treachery  of  Fulbert,"  he  exclaimed, 
"was  less  intolerable  than  this  fresh  outrage."  The 
legate  of  the  pope,  more  impartial  and  tolerant,  speed- 
ily remitted  the  punishment.  On  returning  to  the 
abbey  of  St.  Denis,  he  found  the  monks  converted  to 
implacable  foes.  They  pronounced  him  an  enemy  of 
the  state,  guilty  of  high  treason  against  the  nation,  for 
having  said  that  St.  Dionysius,  bishop  of  Athens,  con- 
verted by  St.  Paul,  was  not  identical  with  the  St. 
Dionysius,  first  bishop  of  Paris.  Compelled  to  self- 
banishment,  notwithstanding  the  complaisance  of  a  re- 
cantation, to  which  he  submitted  to  disarm  their  ani- 
mosity, he  fled,  with  a  single  disciple,  to  a  desert  spot 
in  Champagne.  "  There,"  said  he,  "  on  the  banks  of 
a  narrow  river,  shaded  by  oaks,  and  bordered  by  reeds, 
called  the  Arduze,  I  constructed  with  my  own  hands  a 
small  oratory,  built  of  branches,  with  a  thatched  roof. 
I  was  alone,  and  could  cry  aloud  with  the  prophet,  *  I 
have  fled,  I  have  removed  from  the  habitations  of  men 
and  dwell  in  solitude.'" 

But  he  was  not  long  left  to  himself.  The  spirit  of 
dispute  and  the  love  of  novelty  were  at  that  time  so 
strongly  excited  in  the  world,  that  those  who  possess- 
ed the  word  of  life,  drew  after  them  whole  nations  of 
followers  and  listeners.  The  youth  of  the  age  thirsted 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  287 

so  eagerly  for  truth,  that  controversy  alone  seemed  a 
step  towards  the  important  mystery,  and  from  the 
shock  of  opposing  doctrines  they  expected  the  burst- 
ing forth  of  the  lightning  which  never  came.  "  As 
soon  as  my  retreat  was  discovered,"  says  Abelard, 
"  my  disciples  crowded  round  me  from  every  quarter, 
to  erect  humble  cells  in  the  desert.  They  abandoned 
soft  beds  of  down  for  couches  of  leaves,  luxurious  vi- 
ands for  coarse  vegetables ;  it  was  thus  that,  accord- 
ing to  St.  Jerome,  the  philosophers  of  antiquity  fled 
from  cities,  gardens,  rich  fields  and  shady  groves,  the 
melody  of  birds,  the  freshness  of  fountains,  the  mur- 
muring of  streams,  from  all  that  could  charm  the  eyes 
and  ears,  seduce  the  senses,  or  enervate  virtue.  Even 
so,  the  sons  of  the  prophets  lived  as  hermits  in  huts  on 
the  banks  of  the  Jordan,  feeding  on  roots  and  herbs, 
remote  from  towns  and  human  passions.  My  follow- 
ers constructed  cells  on  the  bank  of  the  Arduze,  rather 
after  the  fashion  of  anchorites  than  pupils.  In  pro- 
portion as  their  numbers  augmented,  their  lives  be- 
came more  studious  and  holy,  so  that  the  shame  of 
my  enemies  increased  with  my  reputation.  Never- 
theless, it  was  poverty  which  forced  me  to  re-establish 
my  school.  I  was  unaccustomed  to  dig  the  earth,  and 
I  could  not  humiliate  myself  to  beg  my  bread.  My 
disciples  cultivated  the  fields,  and  built  the  cells. 
Soon  they  became  insufficient  to  contain  them.  Then 
they  erected  a  vast  edifice  of  timber  and  masonry, 


288  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

which  I  called  after  the  name  of  the  God  of  consola- 
tion,—  The  Paraclete" 

But  the  enemies  of  Abelard  envied  him  even  the 
wilderness.  They  saw,  or  affected  to  see,  in  the  name 
of  the  Consoling  Spirit,  to  whom  he  had  dedicated 
his  monastery,  a  sort  of  philosophic  invocation  to  the 
one  Person  of  the  Trinity,  to  the  exclusion  of  the  other 
two.  St.  Bernard  marked  him  out  for  the  vengeance 
of  the  Church.  He  was  obliged  to  abandon  the  des- 
ert himself,  and  to  seek  at  the  extremity  of  the  shores 
of  Brittany,  amongst  the  rocks  and  strands  of  the 
ocean,  an  asylum  still  more  inaccessible  to  jealousy 
and  persecution.  This  was  the  abbey  of  St.  Gildas,  in 
the  diocese  of  Vannes.  The  monks  who  dwelt  there 
had  degenerated  from  the  sanctity  of  earlier  ages, 
and  had  converted  their  convent  into  a  den  of  barbar- 
ism and  vice.  The  rude  aspect  of  the  neighborhood 
was  exceeded  by  the  character  of  the  inhabitants. 
The  place  was  a  promontory,  incessantly  beaten  by 
the  surges  of  a  groaning  sea.  Mountains  of  foam 
broke  over  the  resounding  rocks,  and  on  a  coast  hol- 
lowed into  vaults  and  caverns  by  the  constant  action 
of  the  waves,  which  buried  themselves  as  in  yawning 
gulfs,  and  then  rushed  back  again  from  other  ap- 
ertures, like  torrents  of  lava  issuing  from  a  volcano. 
Perpendicular  cliffs  shut  out  the  sight  of  the  land  below 
from  the  abbey,  which  might  be  compared  to  a  vessel 
in  perpetual  shipwreck,  on  a  shore  inaccessible  to  pi- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  289 

lots.  "  The  life  of  these  monks,"  says  Abelard,  their 
superior,  "  was  dissolute  and  insubordinate.  The  gates 
of  the  abbey  were  ornamented  with  the  feet  of  stags, 
bears,  and  wild  boars,  the  trophies  and  emblems  of  their 
constant  avocations.  They  were  awakened  by  the 
sound  of  the  horn  and  the  barking  of  hounds.  Cruel 
and  unrestrained  in  their  licentious  habits,  and  con- 
stantly at  war  with  the  surrounding  nobles,  they  were 
alternately  oppressors  or  oppressed."  They  laughed 
at  the  indignation  which  Abelard  expressed  at  their 
rude  manners,  until  their  hatred  against  the  intruding 
reformer  led  them  on  to  crime.  Insulted,  threatened, 
attacked  in  the  forests,  poisoned  even  in  the  holy  chal- 
ice of  the  sacrament,  with  difficulty  he  preserved  his 
life  by  flight.  The  barons  of  the  district  snatched 
him  from  the  steel  of  the  assassins.  He  sought  shelter 
in  a  spot  even  more  deserted  than  the  domains  of  the 
abbey,  and,  like  the  prophets  of  old,  called  upon  the 
Lord  from  the  abyss  of  his  calamity. 

Fifteen  years  passed  over  the  head  of  Abelard  in 
these  alternations  of  learning,  glory,  sanctity,  and  suf- 
fering, during  which  he  bestowed  no  token  of  remem- 
brance on  the  still  young  and  living  victim  he  had 
buried  at  Argenteuil.  Heloise  complained  neither  of 
his  insensibility  nor  silence.  The  neglect  and  con- 
tempt of  her  husband,  she  respected  as  additional  vir- 
tues, believing  that  earth,  heaven,  and  her  own  feelings, 
were  worthy  only  to  be  sacrificed  to  this  first  and  most 
13 


290  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

adored  of  men.     Abelard  remained  forever  the  sole 
object  of  worship  on  the  altar  she  had  erected  to  him 
in  her  heart.     All  her  sighs   ascended  to  Heaven  for 
him,  but  they  were  breathed  without  sound,  lest  an 
uttered  thought  or  regret  should  scandalize  the  world, 
or  disturb  his  sublime  contemplations.     The  gates  of 
the    convent   of  Argenteuil    divulged    no  particle   of 
that  immeasurable  love  which  survived  within  its  walls. 
Persecution   burst  those   gates.     Suger,  abbot  of  St. 
Denis,  pretended  that  the  convent  belonged  to  his  or- 
der, and  drove  out  the  nuns  like  a  flock  without  fold 
or  shepherd.     Their  cry  of  distress  reached  Abelard. 
Whether  it  was  that  his  own  misfortunes  had  softened 
his  heart,  or  the  memory  of  early  happiness  had  re- 
turned full  upon  him,  as  it  often  does  in  the  evening 
of  life;  or  that  a  comparison  between  the  devotion  of 
this  immolated  woman,  the   ingratitude  of  the  world, 
and  the  emptiness  of  glory  had  lit  up  again  the  embers 
of  an  ill-extinguished  affection,  Abelard  hastened  from 
his  retreat  to  the  succor  of  the  wandering  and  perse- 
cuted Heloise.     lie  conducted  her   to  the  Paraclete 
with  her  companions,  bestowed  on  her  the  convent,  of 
which  she  became  abbess,  and  often  visited  her,  to  re- 
lieve by  his  presence  and  fortune  the  indigence  to 
which  he  had  opened  an  asylum.     At  the  age  of  fifty- 
eight,  clothed  in  sacerdotal  habit,  a  spiritual  father 
rather  than  a  carnal  husband,  the  world  respected  the 
union  of  the  two  tender  hearts,  whose  community  of 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  291 

faith  permitted  only  sorrow  for  the  past,  prayers  for 
the  present,  and  hope  of  eternal  happiness  for  the  fu- 
ture. 

But  their  enemies  were  still  active,  and  disseminated 
odious  slander  respecting  this  mystical  intercourse 
between  Abelard  and  his  former  wife.  To  put  an  end 
to  them,  he  retired  once  more  to  his  desert  in  Brittany. 
He  preferred  offering  his  life  anew  to  the  poignard  and 
the  poisoned  cup,  rather  than  expose  the  virtue  of 
Heloise  to  the  bitter  tongues  of  her  calumniators.  It 
was  then  that  he  wrote  the  memoirs  from  which  we 
have  extracted  the  principal  events  described  in  this 
narrative.  The  volume,  confided  to  friendship,  reach- 
ed the  eyes  of  Heloise.  The  remembrances  it  excited, 
made  the  heart  speak  which  had  remained  fifteen  years 
in  silence.  An  epistolary  correspondence,  affection- 
ate on  the  one  side,  cold  on  the  other,  commenced  be- 
tween the  hapless  pair,  separated  equally  by  the  hand 
of  God  and  man.  The  Christian  Sappho,  in  these  let- 
ters, pours  forth,  with  irrepressible  passion,  the  ardor 
of  a  love  purified  by  sacrifice,  and  which  nothing 
earthly  could  extinguish,  as  its  sole  nourishment  pro- 
ceeded from  heavenly  fire.  The  address  alone  of  these 
letters  comprises  a  hymn  of  infinite  tenderness,  as  it 
betrays  the  impassioned  hesitation  of  a  female  hand, 
which  seeks,  finds,  and  rejects  by  turns,  every  name 
capable  of  expressing  the  strongest  attachments  of  the 
soul,  without  finding  one  sufficiently  comprehensive, 


292  LIVES    AND    LE1TERS    OF 

and  which  ends  by  joining  them  all  together,  lest  na- 
ture should  retain  a  variety  of  affection  which  she 
has  not  acknowledged.  "To  her  lord,  or  rather  to 
her  father,  his  slave,  his  daughter,  his  wife,  his  sister, 
Heloise  to  Abelard !" 

"  Some  one,"  says  she,  in  her  first  letter,  after  hav- 
ing read  the  recital  of  their  loves  by  Abelard,  "  some 
one  has  recently  brought  me  by  chance  the  history 
you  have  intrusted  to  a  friend.  As  soon  as  I  per- 
ceived, by  the  first  words  of  the  superscription,  that  it 
came  from  you,  I  began  to  read  it  with  eagerness, 
even  greater  than  the  adoration  I  still  cherish  for  the 
writer.  What  I  have  lost,  I  thought  I  had  found 
again,  as  if  the  beloved  image  could  reproduce  itself  in 
the  tracings  of  the  hand.  Sad  and  bitter,  oh,  my  only 
treasure,  are  the  lines  of  this  narrative,  which  describe 
our  conversion  and  inexhaustible  misfortunes.  They 
cannot  be  read,  even  by  the  most  indifferent  person, 
without  exciting  tears." 

Then,  in  allusion  to  his  new  exile,  and  the  persecu- 
tions with  which  he  was  surrounded  at  St  Gildas,  she 
adds  : — "  In  the  name  of  the  Saviour,  who  seems  still 
to  protect  us,  we,  who  are  his  humble  slaves,  as  we 
are  yours,  we  implore  you  to  tell  us  in  frequent  letters, 
of  the  dangers  by  which  you  are  still  surrounded,  that 
we,  who  are  bound  only  to  you  in  the  world,  may  par- 
take your  grief  or  satisfaction.  Usually,  to  suffer  with 
the  afflicted,  is  to  console  him.  These  letters  will  be 


ABELARD    AND    IIELOISE.  293 

doubly  tender  to  us,  as  they  will  bear  testimony  that 
we  are  not  forgotten.  Oh,  how  delightful  is  the  re- 
ceipt of  letters  from  absent  friends !  If  the  portraits 
of  those  separated  by  distance,  recall  their  memory, 
and  soften  regret  by  a  deceptive  solace,  how  much 
more  efficacious  are  letters,  which  embody  and  declare 
the  living  stamp  of  the  soul  itself !  Thanks  be  to  God 
that  hatred  has  not  prevented  us  from  being  thus  still 
present  to  each  other." 

She  then  calls  upon  him,  by  the  cares  which  he 
owes  as  a  father  to  his  daughters  in  religion,  to  be 
prodigal  of  letters,  orders,  and  advice ;  but  we  easily 
discover  that  unconsciously  she  uses  a  pretext  to  take 
upon  herself  the  leading  part  in  this  acceptable  inter- 
course. "Think,"  she  writes,  "without  speaking  of 
others,  think  of  the  immense  debt  you  have  contract- 
ed towards  me.  Perhaps  then,  what  you  owe  to  all 
those  holy  women  together,  you  will  the  more  readily 
acquit  yourself  of  towards  one  who  lives  for  you  alone. 
And  why,"  she  continues,  with  a  jealous  and  tender 
reproach  for  so  many  years  of  oblivion  and  silence, 
"  why,  when  my  soul  is  bowed  down  with  anguish, 
have  you  not  endeavored  to  comfort  me,  in  absence  by 
your  letters,  in  presence,  by  your  words  ?  This  was  a 
duty  to  which  you  were  called,  as  we  are  united  by  the 
sacrament  of  marriage ;  and  your  conduct  towards  me  is 
the  more  blamable,  as  the  universe  is  my  witness,  I 
have  loved  you  with  an  immense  and  imperishable  affec- 


294  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

tion.  You  know,  sole  object  of  my  regard,  how  much  I 
have  lost  in  losing  you  !  In  proportion  as  my  grief  is 
great,  so  ought  to  be  my  consolation.  From  no  other, 
but  from  you  alone  do  I  expect  it.  You  owe  it  to  me, 
or  you  only  possess  the  power  to  sadden,  rejoice,  or 
calm  me !  Have  I  not  implicitly  complied  with  your 
wishes  ?  Have  I  not  sacrificed  myself  to  obey  you  ?  I 
have  even  done  more ;  my  love  has  carried  me  to 
falsehood  and  suicide.  By  your  order,  in  assuming 
these  habits,  I  have  changed  my  heart  to  prove  that 
you  were  its  absolute  sovereign. 

"Never,  as  Heaven  is  my  witness,  have  I  sought 
from  you  aught  but  yourself.  Although  the  name  of 
•wife  was  the  most  binding  and  holiest  of  titles,  any  other 
would  have  satisfied  my  heart.  The  more  I  humiliated 
myself,  for  your  sake,  the  more  I  should  have  merited 
a  tender  return,  and  the  less  I  should  have  fretted  your 
genius  and  injured  your  glory. 

"  Again,  I  call  on  Heaven  to  testify,  that  if  the  mas- 
ter of  the  world  had  thought  me  worthy  of  his  hand 
and  had  offered  me  with  his  name  the  dominion  of 
the  universe,  the  title  of  your  slave  would  have  been 
to  me  preferable  to  that  of  empress.  What  kings 
could  be  compared  to  you  ?  what  country,  what  town, 
what  village  was  not  impatient  to  behold  you  ?  where 
were  the  women  that  did  not  sigh  to  look  on  you  ? 
where  was  the  queen  who  envied  not  my  happin< 

"  AVere  you  not  endowed  with  two  gifts  which  irrc- 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  295 

sistibly  fascinated  the  female  heart — eloquence  and 
song  ?  By  these  faculties,  when  reposing  from  the  se- 
verer studies  of  philosophy,  you  composed  those  love- 
sonnets,  which,  through  the  combined  charms  of  po- 
etry and  music,  have  caused  our  names  to  be  repeated 
by  every  mouth.  Yes,  the  name  of  Heloise  has  been 
heard  in  many  lands,  and  has  excited  much  jealousy 
when  coupled  with  yours.  And  by  what  rare  perfec- 
tions of  mind  and  body  was  your  youth  adorned !  I 
have  injured  you,  and  yet  you  know  I  was  innocent. 
Tell  me  only,  why,  since  you  have  chosen  to  immure 
me  in  a  convent,  you  have  punished  me  by  neglect  and 
oblivion  ;  by  depriving  me  of  your  presence,  and  even 
of  your  letters  ?  Tell  me,  if  you  dare  to  answer  the 
question !  Alas !  I  know,  and  the  world  suspects  the 
reason !  Your  affection  was  less  pure,  less  disinterest- 
ed than  mine.  Since  you  have  ceased  to  desire  a  pro- 
fane happiness,  you  have  ceased  to  love. 

"Comply,  I  beseech  you,  with  my  request;  it  is 
easy,  and  will  cost  you  little.  Speak  to  me  at  least 
from  a  distance,  by  those  words  which  restore  the  illu- 
sion of  your  presence.  I  thought  I  deserved  much 
from  you,  when,  still  in  youth,  I  embraced,  at  your  de- 
sire, the  austerities  of  the  cloister.  What  recompense 
have  I  looked  for  from  God,  for  whose  love  I  have  done 
less  than  I  have  for  yours  ?  When  you  have  advanced 
towards  Heaven,  I  have  followed  in  your  track.  As  if 
you  had  remembered  the  wife  of  Lot,  who  turned  back, 


296  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

and  looked  behind  her,  you  thought  it  necessary,  when 
you  quitted  the  world  yourself,  to  bind  me  equally  by 
monastic  vows.  Alas !  you  have  misjudged  my  charac- 
ter. I  have  mourned  and  blushed  for  this  proceeding. 
Was  it  necessary  to  drive  me  when  I  was  ready  to 
follow  you,  even  to  perdition  ?  My  heart  was  with 
you,  not  with  myself.  Let  it  remain  yours,  I  conjure 
you,  which  it  will  forever,  if  you  listen  to  my  prayer, 
and  return  me  tenderness  for  tenderness.  Formerly, 
the  purity  of  the  motives  which  bound  me  to  you 
were  open  to  suspicion ;  but  does  not  the  end  prove 
the  nature  of  my  love  from  the  beginning  ?  I  have 
severed  myself  from  every  earthly  enjoyment;  of 
worldly  blessings  I  have  reserved  but  one,  the  right  of 
considering  myself  forever  yours. 

"  I  conjure  you,  in  the  name  of  that  Deity  to  whom 
you  have  devoted  yourself,  give  me  as  much  of  your 
presence  as  is  permitted  :  write  to  me  letters  of  conso- 
lation, fortified  by  which,  I  may  increase  my  ardor  in 
the  service  of  Heaven.  When  you  looked  for  profane 
gratification,  you  addressed  me  in  frequent  epistles, 
which  taught  the  name  of  Heloise  to  many  lips,  and 
made  those  syllables  familiar  in  many  places.  To  raise 
my  soul  to  God,  can  you  not  exert  the  power  which 
you  formerly  exercised  to  excite  earthly  feelings? 
Think  of  what  I  ask !  I  finish  this  long  letter  by  a  sin- 
gle sentence — my  all,  my  sole  possession,  adieu !" 

Moved  by  these  entreaties,  Abelard  at  length  broke 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  297 

through  the  silence  of  many  years.  "Oh,  my  sister," 
said  he,  addressing  his  wife,  "  you  who  were  so  dear  to 
me  in  the  world,  who  are  a  thousand  times  more  cher- 
ished in  Christ,  I  send  you  the  prayer  you  have  de- 
manded with  such  importunity.  Offer  up  to  God,  with 
your  companions,  a  holocaust  of  invocation,  to  expiate 
our  heavy  and  innumerable  faults,  to  charm  away  the 
dangers  which  beset  me  at  every  moment."  He  then 
proceeds  to  a  long  and  cold  dissertation  on  the  efficacy 
of  collective  prayer  from  communities  of  nuns.  At  the 
close  of  the  letter,  love  seems  to  have  betrayed  him 
into  a  last  wish,  which  postpones,  until  death,  the 
reunion  so  vainly  hoped  for  during  life. 

"  Oh,  my  sister,"  he  exclaims,  "  if  God  should  de- 
liver me  into  the  hands  of  my  enemies,  if  they  put  me 
to  death,  or  if,  in  the  ordinary  course  of  nature,  I  reach 
the  common  end  of  all  men,  let  my  body,  wherever  it 
is  buried  or  abandoned,  be  transported  to  your  ceme- 
tery, that  you,  my  daughters,  my  sisters  in  Jesus 
Christ,  having  my  tomb  ever  before  your  eyes,  may 
feel  called  upon  to  intercede  for  me  more  incessantly 
by  constant  prayers.  For  a  soul  afflicted  by  so  many 
calamities,  and  penitent  for  so  many  errors,  I  know 
not  where  to  find  a  resting-place  on  earth  more  safe 
and  salutary  than  that  which  is  dedicated  to  The  Con- 
soling Spirit,  and  which  so  well  deserves  the  name. 
They  were  women  who,  careful  of  the  entombing  of 
the  Saviour,  embalmed  him  with  perfumes,  and  watch- 
13* 


298  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

cd   around  his  sepulchre.     Thus  they  were    the  first 
who  received  consolation." 

With   the    exception  of  this  involuntary  return  of 
love  after  death,  the  letters  of  Abelard  are  dry,  cold, 
and    unfeeling.      They    breathe    exclusive    selfish' 
while  those  of  Heloise  contain  no  thought  but  of  him. 

"  To  my  only  thought  after  Jesus — to  my  only  hope 
next  to  the  Saviour"  thus  she  addresses  him ;  " it  is 
you  alone  who  will  celebrate  our  obsequies,  you  who 
will  dismiss  to  the  Almighty  those  you  have  assembled 
in  his  presence.  Surely  God  will  not  permit  us  to 
survive  you  ;  but  should  you  die  before  us,  we  shall 
think  rather  of  following  than  of  burying  you,  since,  des- 
tined so  soon  to  the  grave  ourselves,  we  shall  want  the 
strength  to  prepare  your  tomb.  If  I  lose  you,  what 
hope  remains  to  me?  how  shall  I  longer  bear  this 
pilgrimage  of  life,  in  which  I  am  still  sustained  by 
nothing  but  the  thought  that  you  partake  it  with  me  ? 
Am  I  not  unfortunate  beyond  all  precedent  ?  Raised 
by  you  above  the  level  of  my  sex,  have  I  only 
reached  this  high  renown  to  be  precipitated  from  un- 
measured felicity  to  unparalleled  disaster  ?  We  lived 
in  chastity :  you  in  Paris,  I  at  Argenteuil  :  we  sepa- 
rated to  devote  ourselves  entirely — you  to  your  studies, 
I  to  prayer  with  the  holy  sisterhood  who  surrounded 
me.  During  this  irreproachable  life,  the  hand  of  crime 
was  permitted  to  reach  you.  Ah  !  why  did  not  the 
blow  fall  on  both  together  ?  Both  were  guilty,  but  you 


ABELAUD    AND    HELOISE.  299 

alone  have  borne  the  expiation ;  the  least  culpable 
has  received  the  punishment.  What  you  have  suf- 
fered for  a  moment,  I  ought  to  have  endured  for  life ! 
If  I  must  avow  the  weakness  of  my  soul,  I  search  in 
vain  for  repentance  there.  My  happiness  was  too 
supreme  to  be  rooted  out  from  memory,  or  recollected 
with  horror.  In  sleep,  even  in  the  midst  of  devotional 
ceremonies,  the  periods,  the  places,  the  incidents  of 
our  blissful  lives  present  themselves  to  my  imagination. 
They  call  me  holy,  who  know  not  how  I  regret  the 
past.  I  am  praised  by  men,  but  ah !  how  censurable 
in  the  eyes  of  God,  who  reads  all  hearts  I  In  every 
action  of  my  life,  you  well  know,  I  have  feared  your 
anger  beyond  that  of  God  himself.  Think  not  too 
well  of  me,  and  never  cease  to  intercede  for  me  in  your 
prayers." 

In  the  midst  of  an  elaborate  dissertation  on  "  The 
Canticle  of  Canticles,"  Abelard  introduced  some  touch- 
ing sentences  in  his  answer.  "  Why,"  said  he  to  He- 
loise,  "do  you  reproach  me  with  having  made  you 
a  participator  in  my  sorrows,  when  you  yourself  have 
forced  me  to  this  by  your  solicitations  ?  Is  it  possible 
that  you  could  ever  be  happy  while  I  am  miserable  ? 
Would  you  wish  to  be  the  companion  of  my  enjoyment, 
and  not  partake  my  anguish  ?  Can  you  desire  that  I 
should  precede  you  to  heaven,  you  who  would  have 
followed  me  to  the  lowest  depths  of  perdition  ?"  He 
then  recalls  in  order  his  past  iniquities,  and  commands 


300  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Heloise  to  return  thanks  to  the  Creator  for  the  punish- 
.ments  which  have  assailed  and  changed  him.     "  You, 

0  Lord,  have  joined   and  divided  us,"  he  thus  con- 
cludes ;  "  those  who,  for  a  time  you  have  separated  in 
this  world,  we  beseech  you  to  reunite  forever  in  the 
world  to  come !"     At  last,  we  find  the  husband  once 
more  in  the  saint. 

Persecution  drove  Abelard  back  to  the  Paraclete. 
The  odious  insinuations  of  his  enemies  forced  him  from 
that  sanctuary  a  second  time.  "How  is  it,"  he  ex- 
claimed in  his  despair,  "  that  suspicion  still  clings  to 
me,  when  misfortunes,  years,  and  the  holiness  of  the 
monastic  profession  are  my  securities  against  crime? 

1  suffer  more   at   present  from   calumny  than  I  did 
formerly  from  outrage." 

But  his  persecutors  thought  to  attack  him  more  se- 
verely in  his  glory  than  in  his  love.  His  writings, 
which  increased  daily,  alarmed  Rome  herself,  and  were 
considered  heretical,  since  they  spread  forth  the  first 
dawn  of  freedom  in  discussion.  St.  Bernard,  the 
censor,  reformer,  and  avenger  of  the  Church  in  France, 
set  himself  vehemently  in  opposition  to  these  new 
tenets.  Cited  before  the  council  of  Sens,  to  answer 
for  his  opinions,  Abelard  preserved  silence.  St.  Ber- 
nard denounced  his  contumacy  as  an  additional  offence. 

u  This  man,"  said  he,  addressing  the  sovereign  pon- 
tiff, "boasts  that  he  can  explain  by  reason  the  most 
profound  mysteries.  He  mounts  up  to  heaven,  and 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  301 

descends  to  the  lowest  abyss ;  he  is  great  in  his  own 
estimation.  He  scrutinizes  the  Divine  Majesty,  and 
disseminates  errors.  One  of  his  treatises  ha,s  been 
given  to  the  fire.  Accursed  be  the  hand  that  gathers 
up  the  fragments !  Necessity  demands  a  swift  remedy 
for  this  contagion,  for  the  man  has  many  followers. 
He  preaches  a  new  gospel  to  the  people, — a  new  faith 
to  the  nations  of  the  earth, — all  is  contradiction !  The 
exterior  form  of  piety  is  displayed  by  a  modest  carriage 
and  humble  garments.  His  disciples  transform  them- 
selves into  angels  of  light,  while  they  are  in  fact  so 
many  Satansf  This  Goliath  (thus  he  denominates 
Abelard)  hath  proposed  to  sustain  against  me  perverse 
dogmas.  I  refuse  to  argue,  because  I  am  a  child  in  the 
truth,  and  he  is  a  great  and  terrible  opponent.  But 
you,  successor  of  the  Apostles,  you  alone  will  judge, 
whether  he  ought  to  find  a  refuge  on  the  chair  of  St. 
Peter.  Consider  what  you  owe  to  yourself!  Why 
have  you  been  elevated  to  the  throne,  if  not  to  root 
out  and  plant  anew.  If  God  has  permitted  schism  to 
rear  its  head  in  your  days,  is  it  not  that  schism  may  be 
overthrown  ?  Behold,  the  foxes  will  spoil  and  tear  up 
the  vineyard  of  the  Lord,  if  you  suffer  them  to  increase 
and  multiply.  If  you  strike  them  not,  they  will  bring 
trouble  and  despair  to  your  successors.  If  you  hesi- 
tate to  destroy  them,  we  will  destroy  them  ourselves." 
Thus  spoke  this  all-potent  tribune  of  the  Church  of 
France,  to  whom  statues  are  erected  after  an  interval 


302  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 


of  eight  centuries.  A  summons  so  imperious,  supported 
by  the  popularity  of  St.  Bernard,  could  not  fail  to  be 
complied  with  by  Rome,  although  the  pope,  of  a  gentle 
and  indulgent  nature,  was  unwilling  to  strike  a  teacher, 
whose  sincerity  in  faith  he  acknowledged,  while  he  ad- 
mired his  genius.  Abelard  was  condemned  to  per- 
petual seclusion  in  a  cloistered  monastery.  This  sen- 
tence, officially  promulgated  in  France,  after  consider- 
able delay,  but  foreseen  by  the  victim  of  it,  removed 
him  for  the  last  time  from  the  quiet  security  of  the 
Paraclete  and  the  tears  of  Heloise.  He  bade  an  eter- 
nal adieu  to  the  retreat  which  he  had  first  peopled 
with  enthusiastic  disciples,  afterwards  with  pious  maid- 
ens, and  which  had  so  often  sheltered  him  from  the 
storms  of  his  troubled  existence.  Alone  and  on  foot 
he  travelled  towards  the  Alps,  to  implore  from  the 
justice  of  the  pope  an  asylum  against  his  persecutor. 
In  his  journey  lie  passed  by  Cluny,  at  that  time  a 
sovereign  abbey,  which  administered  hospitality  with- 
out distinction  to  popes,  kings,  pilgrims,  and  mendi- 
cants, on  their  journey  from  Paris  to  Rome. 

This  celebrated  monastery,  of  the  order  of  St.  Bene- 
dict, was  founded  by  William,  duke  of  Aquitaine,  who 
possessed  an  extensive  territory  in  the  province  of  the 
Maconnais.  William,  according  to  the  practice  of  the 
princes  and  nobles  of  his  time,  expected  to  purchase 
eternal  bliss  by  a  gift  of  land  to  the  cenobites,  who,  in 
return,  offered  up  perpetual  prayers  for  the  salvation  of 


ABELAHD    AND    HELOISE.  303 

his  soul.  The  monks,  whom  he  had  commissioned  to 
seek  out  the  fittest  place  for  the  site  of  the  intended 
monastery,  having  traversed  the  hills  and  valleys  of 
his  domains,  fixed  their  choice  upon  a  deep  and  narrow 
defile,  which  runs  behind  the  chain  of  mountains  of  the 
Saone,  between  Dijon  and  Macon.  "A  place,"  as 
they  described  it,  "  shut  out  from  all  communication 
with  the  world,  and  so  fall  of  silence,  repose,  and 
peace,  that  it  presents,  in  some  manner,  an  image  of 
celestial  tranquillity !"  These  recluses  possessed  a  nat- 
ural instinct  for  solitude  and  contemplation.  At  that 
time  the  hills  were  covered  with  thick  forests,  the 
growth  of  centuries,  which  bounded  the  horizon,  and 
concealed  the  sun ;  the  waters  of  the  mountain  tor- 
rents overflowing  the  flat  lands,  formed  lakes,  ponds, 
and  marshes,  bordered  by  reeds.  The  only  track  that 
led  to  this  basin  of  water  and  foliage,  was  a  narrow 
path  hollowed  out  by  the  feet  of  mules.  Above  the 
summit  of  the  woods  arose  the  smoke  of  a  few  thinly- 
scattered  cottages,  inhabited  by  hunters,  fishermen,  and 
wood-cutters.  The  gorge  of  Cluny  was  the  Thebais 
of  the  Gauls. 

"On  this  spot,"  said  the  monks  to  the  Duke  of 
Aquitaine,  "  we  will  erect  our  monastery." 

"  No,"  replied  the  Duke,  "  it  is  a  valley  too  much 
overshadowed  by  thick  forests,  and  full  of  fallow  deer. 
The  hunters  and  their  dogs,  with  their  shrill  cries  and 
barking,  will  disturb  your  silence." 


304  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

"  Then  drive  away  the  dogs,  and  introduce  the 
monks,"  replied  the  holy  men. 

William  consented ;  the  dogs  disappeared,  and  the 
monks  supplied  their  places.  In  a  few  centuries,  owing 
to  the  extent  and  fertility  of  the  land,  the  pious  dis- 
interestedness which  made  many  dying  penitents  be- 
queath their  fortunes  to  the  monastery,  and  the  skilful 
government  of  the  abbots,  who  proved  themselves  good 
worldly  statesmen,  the  desert  of  Cluny  beheld  rising  in 
lofty  elevation,  where  once  its  forests  stood,  another 
forest  of  steeples,  cloisters,  domes,  vaulted  arches, 
Gothic  battlements,  and  Byzantine  windows,  the  orna- 
ments and  defences  of  a  Basilica  equal  in  extent  to  the 
largest  ecclesiastical  edifices  of  Imperial  Rome. 

The  river  which  formerly  inundated  the  valley,  now 
inclosed  within  beds  of  stone,  or  drained  off  into  ponds 
stocked  with  fish,  conveyed  fertility  to  extensive  mead- 
ows, whitening  with  flocks  and  herds.  A  large  town 
adjoined  the  abbey,  under  the  protection  of  the  monks. 
Popes  had  issued  from  its  cells  to  rule  the  Christian 
world ;  monarchs  came  to  visit,  endow,  and  bestow 
privileges  on  this  chosen  sanctuary.  Councils  were 
assembled  there,  and  the  abbots  ranked  as  sovereign 
princes.  Pilgrims  from  all  quarters  of  the  globe  be- 
sieged the  gates,  and  were  received  with  hospitality. 
At  the  time  of  Abelard's  arrival,  the  monastery  was 
governed  by  Peter  the  Venerable,  a  man  supremely 
eminent  in  science,  poetry,  renown,  and  virtue.  A  living 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  305 

contrast  to  St.  Bernard,  the  Abbot  of  Cluny  personified 
the  true  charity  of  religion,  while  the  other  embodied 
only  the  proselytism  and  terror.  Peter  the  Venerable 
had  been  elected  while  still  young  to  the  command  of 
the  order,  through  the  reputation  of  his  talents,  and 
the  influence  of  his  character ;  a  poet,  a  philosopher, 
an  author,  a  negotiator;  a  statesman  in  piety,  and  a 
religious  man  in  politics ;  he  was  another  Abelard,  but 
divested  of  his  pride  and  weakness.  The  impress  of 
his  soul  was  stamped  upon  his  features.  He  was  tall 
and  slender  in  figure,  slow  of  step,  beautiful  in  counte- 
nance, of  a  gentle  aspect,  a  composed  expression,  and 
an  affable  demeanor.  Habitually  silent,  when  he  spoke 
he  became  eloquent  and  persuasive.  Placed,  as  we  may 
say,  by  the  elevation  of  his  thoughts,  on  an  interme- 
diate point  between  heaven  and  earth,  he  divided  his 
attention  equally  between  things  temporal  and  things 
eternal.  Representing  the  holiness  of  true  Christianity, 
he  attracted  thousands  towards  religion  by  the  charm 
of  gentleness,  instead  of  driving  them  away  by  the  ter- 
ror of  severity.  The  memory  of  his  virtues  was  so  in- 
delibly impressed,  that  it  has  been  handed  down  for 
eight  centuries,  from  father  to  son,  in  the  town  and 
valley  of  Cluny.  A  few  years  since,  a  tomb  having 
been  discovered  by  chance,  and  supposed  to  be  his,  the 
women  and  children  eagerly  contended  for  the  dust  it 
contained,  urged  by  a  traditional  affection  acknowledged 
throughout  the  district.  Peter  the  Venerable  had  held 


306  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

disputes  with  St.  Bernard,  whose  practice  it  was  to 
quarrel  with  all  he  was  unable  to  control.  The  Abbot 
of  Cluny  loved  Abelard  for  his  poetry,  his  eloquence, 
and,  above  all,  for  his  misfortunes.  Heloise  he  looked 
upon  as  the  wonder  of  the  age,  and  the  ornament  of 
the  sanctuary.  He  had  visited  the  Paraclete,  rendered 
famous  by  the  piety  and  tears  of  this  widow  of  a  living 
husband,  and  carried  back  from  the  interview  edifica- 
tion, enthusiasm,  and  piety,  which  led  him  to  com- 
mence and  continue  with  her  an  epistolary  correspond- 
ence. Such  was  the  man  of  whom  the  fugitive  Abelard 
solicited  the  shelter  of  a  night's  lodging. 

He  arrived,  broken  down  by  sorrow,  fatigue,  and 
sickness,  at  the  gates  of  the  abbey.  Prompted  by  hu- 
mility, he  wished  to  throw  himself  at  the  feet  of  Peter 
the  Venerable,  who  received  him  in  his  arms,  and 
opened  to  him  his  house  and  his  heart.  Abelard,  over- 
powered by  a  reception  to  which  the  persecutions  of 
St.  Bernard  had  disaccustomed  him,  related  his  recent 
vicissitudes,  his  sorrows,  his  condemnation  to  the  clois- 
ter, and  his  resolve  to  proceed  on  foot  to  Rome,  to 
throw  himself  on  the  justice  and  commiseration  of  the 
sovereign  pontiff,  formerly  his  personal  friend.  The 
Abbot  of  Cluny  expressed  warm  compassion  for  his  mis- 
fortunes, and  encouraged  his  confidence  in  the  pope. 
But,  mistrusting  the  strength  of  his  guest,  weakened 
as  it  was  by  grief  and  fear,  apprehensive  lest  this  glory 
of  France  should  perish  miserably  on  some  snow  track 


.      ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  307 

while  begging  his  bread  across  the  Alps,  or  that  he 
might  fall  a  prisoner  into  the  hands  of  his  enemies  be- 
yond the  mountains,  he  retained  him  at  the  monastery 
under  a  variety  of  pious  pretexts.  During  this  inter- 
val, Peter  the  Venerable  addressed  the  pope  privately, 
in  a  letter  full  of  the  tenderest  and  most  disinterested 
zeal  for  his  friend.  "  The  illustrious  Abelard,"  said  he 
in  this  epistle,  "well  known  to  your  Holiness,  has 
passed  some  days  with  me  at  Cluny,  coming  from 
France.  I  questioned  him  as  to  where  he  was  going. 
*  I  am  pursued/  replied  he,  4  by  the  persecutions  of  cer- 
tain men,  who  have  applied  to  me  the  name  of  heretic, 
which  I  reject  and  detest.  I  have  appealed  from  their 
sentence  to  the  justice  of  the  supreme  head  of  the 
Church,  and  in  that  sanctuary  I  seek  protection  against 
my  enemies.'  I  have  approved  this  project  of  Abelard, 
and  have  strongly  encouraged  him  to  repair  to  your 
presence,  assuring  him  that  neither  justice  nor  kindness 
would  be  withheld  from  such  a  suppliant,  seeing  that 
both  are  freely  accorded  to  the  obscure  pilgrim,  or  the 
perfect  stranger.  I  added  also,  that  he  might  rely  on 
indulgence  for  unintentional  errors.  While  he  rested 
at  the  abbey,  the  Abbot  of  Clairvaux  arrived  here.  We 
concerted  together  in  all  Christian  charity,  how  to 
reconcile  Abelard,  my  guest,  with  the  Abbot  Bernard, 
who  has  reduced  him  to  this  necessity  of  appealing  to 
your  Holiness.  I  have  used  every  effort  in  my  power 
to  bring  about  this  accommodation.  I  have  advised 


308  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Abelard  to  expunge  from  his  writings,  under  the  super- 
vision of  Bernard  himself,  and  other  sagacious  men, 
every  passage  that  offends  against  the  scruples  of  the 
true  faith.  Abelard  has  given  his  consent  to  this. 
From  that  moment  the  reconciliation  has  been  effected 
by  my  agency,  but  much  more  through  the  inspiration 
of  Providence.  Abelard,  our  guest,  has  bade  farewell 
forever  to  the  agitation  of  controversy,  and  the  schools ; 
he  has  selected  Cluny  for  his  last  and  permanent  resi- 
dence. I  implore  you  then,  I,  the  most  humble  and 
devoted  of  your  servants,  the  entire  community  of  the 
abbey  implores  you,  and  Abelard  himself  joins  in  the 
entreaty, — by  him,  by  us,  by  the  messengers  who  bear 
these  letters,  by  the  letters  they  carry,  we  all  beseech 
you  to  allow  him  to  exhaust  at  Cluny  the  few  days 
which  remain  to  him  of  his  life,  and  his  old  age ;  and 
few  indeed  those  days  are  likely  to  number.  We  all 
conjure  you  not  to  allow  persecution  from  any  quarter 
to  disturb  or  drive  him  forth  again  from  this  house, 
under  the  roof  of  which,  like  the  sparrow  which  seeks 
a  nest,  he  rejoices  to  have  found  an  asylum,  even  as 
the  dove  rejoiced  when  it  found  a  dry  spot  on  which 
to  rest  its  foot.  Refuse  not  your  holy  protection  to  the 
man  whom  you  once  distinguished  by  the  title  of  your 
friend  1"  Such  a  touching  appeal  of  friendship,  and  the 
living  memory  of  the  enthusiastic  regard  which  he  had 
formerly  felt  for  the  orator  and  poet  of  his  youth,  could 
not  fail  to  reach  the  heart  of  the  pope.  He  granted 


ABELARD  AND  HKLOISE.  309 

to  the  prayer  of  Peter  the  Venerable  the  pardon  and 
protection  which  he  implored  for  Abelard.  In  his 
nominal  imprisonment,  Abelard  had  for  superior  and 
jailer  the  most  tender  and  compassionate  of  friends. 

Heloise,  satisfied  as  to  the  worldly  destiny  of  her 
husband,  watched  at  a  distance,  by  letters  and  prayers, 
over  his  declining  health  and  immortal  prospects.  The 
last  days  of  this  distinguished  man,  who  had  inspired 
and  lost  the  admiration  of  the  world,  but  who  had  still 
preserved  the  undivided  tenderness  of  a  woman,  and 
the  attachment  of  a  friend,  passed  over  in  poetical  and 
religious  conversations  with  Peter  the  Venerable,  in  the 
contemplation  and  study  of  futurity,  in  the  contempt 
of  those  vanities  which  had  not  consoled  him  for  the 
devotion  of  a  single  heart,  and  in  the  hope  of  the  happy 
reunion  which  Heloise  assured  him  would  be  assigned 
to  them  in  heaven. 

At  the  extremity  of  a  desert  alley,  and  at  the  foot 
of  inclosing  walls,  flanked  by  the  towers  of  the  monas- 
tery, on  the  margin  of  extensive  meadows  closed  in  by 
woods,  close  to  the  murmuring  stream,  and  the  reeds 
of  a  dried-lip  marsh,  through  which  the  breezes  whistled 
drearily,  there  is  still  existing  an  enormous  lime-tree, 
under  the  shade  of  which  Abelard  was  accustomed  to 
sit  and  meditate,  with  his  face  turned  towards  the  di- 
rection of  the  Paraclete.  The  monks,  proud  of  having 
afforded  the  hospitality  of  their  cloisters  to  the  most 
shining  light  of  the  eleventh  century,  sedulously  pre- 


310  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

served  this  tradition.  The  fury  of  the  French  Revolu- 
tion, which  destroyed  so  much,  respected  this  lime- 
tree  and  one  or  two  of  the  spires  of  the  monastery. 
The  last  of  the  ecclesiastics  related  the  legend  to  the 
inhabitants  of  the  town,  who  tell  it  again  to  accidental 
visitors.  I  myself  possess,  under  a  lime  of  three  hun- 
dred years  old,  in  my  garden  at  Saint-Point,  the  bench 
of  gray-stone,  sonorous  as  a  bell,  on  which,  according 
to  the  tradition,  Abelard  sat  under  the  more  ancient 
tree  of  Cluny.  I  have  also  carried  from  thence  a  large 
table  of  the  same  stone,  on  which  he  reposed  his  head 
while  composing  his  hymns,  or  meditating  over  his 
misfortunes  and  his  love. 

His  soul,  consumed  by  the  fire  of  passion  and  the 
flame  of  genius,  robbed  of  happiness  by  evil  destiny, 
and  of  fame  by  persecution,  exhausted  itself  before  he 
reached  an  advanced  period  of  life.  He  expired  in  the 
arms  of  his  friend,  two  years  and  a  few  months  after 
he  had  crossed  the  hospitable  threshold  of  Cluny. 

The  disinterested  attachment  of  Peter  the  Venerable 
ceased  not  until  he  had  superintended  the  interment  of 
his  friend.  Under  the  instinct  of  truly  divine  charity, 
he  became  an  accomplice  in  the  love  which  suffering^ 
repentance,  and  tears  had  rendered  sacred  in  his  eyes. 
He  felt  that  Abelard  above,  and  Heloise  on  earth,  de- 
manded of  him  the  last  consolation  of  a  reunion  in  the 
grave.  He  could  not  persuade  himself  that  it  was 
culpable  to  descend  from  the  height  of  his  sanctity,  and 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  311 

participate  in  the  weakness  or  illusion,  which,  while  it 
was  unable  to  blend  two  lives  into  one,  might  at  least 
be  permitted  to  mingle  the  mortal  dust  which  once  was 
animated.  But,  dreading  even  the  shadow  of  scandal, 
he  wrapped  up  in  secresy  the  pious  theft  which  he  him- 
self was  about  to  commit  on  the  cemetery  of  St.  Mar- 
cel, an  oratory  belonging  to  the  abbey,  in  which  Abel- 
ard  was  interred. 

He  confided  to  no  deputy  the  care  of  accompanying 
the  remains  of  the  deceased,  and  of  remitting  them  to 
the  guardianship  of  Heloise.  No  hands  were  worthy 
of  touching  this  sacred  deposit,  except  those  of  a  saint 
and  a  wife.  He  rose  in  the  dead  of  the  night,  ex- 
humed the  coffin,  conveyed  it  to  the  Paraclete,  and 
inscribed  in  verse  the  epitaph  of  his  friend.  "The 
Plato  of  our  age"  (thus  he  designates  him  in  these 
lines),  "  equal  or  superior  to  his  predecessors,  sovereign 
master  of  thought,  acknowledged  throughout  the  uni- 
verse for  the  variety  and  extent  of  his  genius ;  he  sur- 
passed all  men  in  the  strength  of  his  imagination  and 
the  power  of  his  eloquence.  His  name  was  Abelard !" 
The  pious  abbot  then  assumed  the  paternal  charge  of 
an  only  son,  who  had  been  born  to  the  unhappy  pair 
during  their  temporary  union,  and  before  they  had  pro- 
nounced the  monastic  vows. 

Heloise,  having  received  with  tears  the  coffin  of 
Abelard,  shut  herself  up  in  the  cemetery  of  the  Para- 
clete, in  the  vault,  where  she  assumed  her  conjugal 


312  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

place  by  the  couch  of  death.  Peter  the  Venerable 
himself  performed  the  funeral  rites,  and  departed  after 
he  had  placed  the  mortal  relics  of  his  friend  under  the 
guardianship  of  an  unextinguishable  love.  This  mutual 
reverence  for  the  memory  of  the  same  object  drew 
still  closer  the  ties  of  admiration  and  gratitude  which 
attached  the  abbot  of  Cluny  to  the  widow  of  the  Para- 
clete. Heloise,  who  longed  to  be  assured  of  the  eter- 
nal happiness  of  Abelard,  as  passionately  as  she  had 
mourned  his  earthly  sorrows,  entreated  from  the  vener- 
able father  a  written  attestation  that  her  anxious  desires 
were  accomplished.  "  I  conjure  you,"  she  wrote  to  him 
after  his  return,  "  to  send  me  open  documents,  stamped 
with  your  seal,  containing  the  full  absolution  of  my 
departed  lord,  that  these  evidences  of  felicity  may  be 
suspended  over  his  tomb.  Remember,  too,"  she  added, 
"  to  consider  as  your  own  son  the  son  of  Abelard  and 
Heloise." 

Peter  the  Venerable  yielded  to  this  last  anxious 
scruple  of  affection,  and  forwarded  to  the  Paraclete  the 
letters  of  absolution  demanded  from  him.  He  also, 
with  his  own  hand,  in  an  epistle  to  Heloise  replete 
with  evangelical  love,  recapitulattd  every  circumstance 
attending  the  last  days  of  Abelard,  which  might  tend 
to  console  the  anguish  of  an  eternal  widowhood.  "  It 
is  not  on  this  day,"  says  he,  "  oh,  my  sister,  that  I  be- 
gin to  love  you,  for  I  have  loved  you  long  already  !  I 
had  scarcely  passed  my  early  youth  and  reached  the 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  313 

age  of  manhood,  when  the  fame  reached  me,  not  then 
of  your  exalted  piety,  but  of  your  unrivalled  genius. 
It  was  related  everywhere  that  a  young  female,  in  the 
first  bloom  of  youth  and  beauty,  had  distinguished  her- 
self, unlike  her  sex  in  general,  by  poetry,  eloquence, 
and  philosophy.  Neither  the  love  of  pleasure,  nor  the 
attractions  of  the  time,  could  obtain  dominion  in  her 
heart  over  pursuits  which  were  grand  in  intellect,  and 
beautiful  in  science.  The  world,  stagnating  in  base  and 
slothful  ignorance,  beheld  with  astonishment  how,  not 
only  among  women,  but  in  the  assemblies  of  men,  He- 
loise  exhibited  and  maintained  her  vast  superiority. 
Soon  (to  speak  in  the  words  of  the  Apostle)  He  who 
had  suffered  you  to  issue  from  the  bosom  of  your 
mother,  by  divine  grace,  attracted  you  entirely  to  him- 
self. You  exchanged  the  study  of  perishable  knowl- 
edge for  the  science  of  eternity ;  for  Plato  you  adopted 
Christ ;  and  in  place  of  the  academy  you  selected  the 
cloister.  Would  that  it  had  been  permitted  that  Cluny 
should  have  possessed  you!  that  you  should  have 
shared  our  sweet  imprisonment  of  Marcigny,  with  the 
female  servants  of  the  Lord,  who  pant  only  for  celestial 
liberty !  But,  although  Providence  withheld  this  favor 
from  us,  we  have  been  distinguished  by  receiving  him 
who  in  life  belonged  to  you  :  him  whom  we  must  ever 
honor  and  remember  with  respect, — the  philosopher 
of  the  gospel,  the  Abelard  who,  by  Divine  permission, 
was  sent  to  close  his  days  in  our  monastery. 
14 


314  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

"  It  is  no  easy  task,  my  sister,  to  describe  in  a  few 
short  lines  the  holiness,  the  humility,  the  self-denial  he 
exhibited  to  us,  and  of  which  the  collected  brotherhood 
have  borne  witness.  If  I  do  not  deceive  myself,  never 
did  I  behold  a  life  and  deportment  so  thoroughly  sub- 
missive. I  placed  him  in  an  elevated  rank  in  our  com- 
munity, but  he  appeared  the  lowest  of  all  by  the  sim- 
plicity of  his  dress.  It  was  equally  so  with  his  diet, 
and  all  that  regarded  the  enjoyment  of  the  senses.  I 
speak  not  of  luxury,  which  was  a  stranger  to  him  :  he 
refused  every  thing  but  what  was  indispensable  to  the 
sustenance  of  life.  His  conduct  and  his  words  were 
irreproachable,  either  as  regarded  himself,  or  as  an  ex- 
ample to  others. 

"  He  read  continually,  prayed  often,  and  never  spoke, 
except  when  literary  controversy  or  holy  discussion 
compelled  him  to  break  silence.  What  can  I  tell  you 
more?  His  mind,  his  tongue,  his  meditations  were 
entirely  concentrated  on,  and  promoted,  literary,  phil- 
osophical, and  divine  instruction.  Simple,  straight- 
forward, reflecting  on  eternal  judgment,  and  shunning 
all  evil,  he  consecrated  to  God  the  closing  days  of  an 
illustrious  life. 

"  To  afford  him  a  little  recreation,  and  to  recruit  his 
failing  health,  I  dispatched  him  to  Saint  Marcel,  near 
Chalons.  I  purposely  selected  this  country,  the  most 
attractive  in  Burgundy,  and  a  convent  close  to  the 
town,  from  which  it  is  only  separated  by  the  course  of 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  315 

the  Saone.  There,  as  much  as  his  strength  permitted, 
he  resumed  the  cherished  studies  of  his  youth,  and  as 
has  been  also  said  of  Gregory  the  Great,  he  suffered 
not  a  single  moment  to  pass  that  was  not  occupied 
either  in  prayer,  in  reading,  in  writing,  or  in  dictation. 

"  While  occupied  with  these  holy  avocations,  death, 
the  missionary  of  the  Divine,  came  to  seek  him.  He 
found  him  not  asleep,  like  many  others,  but  awake,  up, 
and  ready,  and  conveyed  him  joyfully  to  the  marriage 
feast.  He  carried  with  him  his  lamp  replenished  with 
oil,  his  conscience  filled  with  the  testimony  of  a  holy 
life.  A  mortal  sickness  seized  and  reduced  him  to  ex- 
tremity ;  he  felt  that  he  had  reached  the  term  of  his 
mortal  existence,  and  was  about  to  render  up  the  com- 
mon tribute.  Then,  with  what  fervent  piety,  what  ar- 
dent inspiration,  did  he  make  the  last  confession  of  his 
sins !  with  what  fervor  did  he  receive  the  promise  of 
eternal  being!  with  what  confidence  did  he  recom- 
mend his  body  and  his  soul  to  the  tender  mercy  of  the 
Saviour !  Such  was  the  death  of  Abelard  !  And  thus 
has  the  man  who  had  rendered  himself  illustrious 
throughout  the  world  by  the  miracles  of  his  knowledge, 
and  his  lessons,  passed,  according  to  my  conviction, 
into  the  presence  of  his  Creator. 

"And  you,  my  sister,  loved  and  venerated  in  God, 
you  who  were  united  to  him  in  worldly  bonds,  before 
you  enter  on  a  second  union  cemented  by  divine  affec- 
tion ;  you  who  have  so  long  devoted  yourself  to  the 


316  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

Lord  with  him,  and  by  his  direction,  remember  him  ever 
in  your  prayers,  and  in  your  communion  with  the 
Saviour.  Christ  shelters  you  both  in  the  asylum  of 
his  heart;  he  warms  you  again  in  his  bosom;  and 
when  his  day  arrives,  announced  by  the  voice  of  the 
archangel,  he  will  restore  Abelard  to  you,  and  never 
more  will  you  be  separated." 

Religion  should  have  erected  a  statue  to  the  man 
who  could  indite  this  letter.  Never  did  divine  tender- 
ness unite  itself  with  more  indulgence  to  human  affec- 
tion. Never  did  sanctity  evince  greater  condescension, 
or  virtue  soften  into  more  amiable  compassion.  \Ve 
observe,  with  what  delicacy  of  sentiment  and  expres- 
sion he  recalls,  even  in  death,  the  image  of  an  eternal 
marriage,  so  inseparably  wound  up  with  the  aspirations 
of  Heloise.  The  oil  of  the  Samaritan  did  not  penetrate 
with  more  healing  influence  into  the  wounds  of  the 
body,  than  these  words  of  true  piety  alleviate  the  suf- 
ferings of  the  heart.  The  friendship  of  such  a  man  as 
Peter  the  Venerable,  and  the  love  of  such  a  woman  as 
Heloise,  are  of  themselves  sufficient  evidences  that 
Abelard  deserved  better  of  his  age  than  posterity  is 
willinor  to  believe. 

o 

Heloise  survived  her  husband  twenty  years,  a  priest- 
ess of  God,  devoted  to  the  worship  of  a  sepulchre  in  the 
solitude  of  the  Paraclete.  When  she  felt  the  near 
approach  of  the  death  she  had  so  long  invoked,  she 
directed  the  sisterhood  to  place  her  body  by  the  side 


ABELARD    AND    HELOISE.  31 7 

of  that  of  her  husband,  in  the  same  coffin.  The  love 
which  had  united  and  separated  them  during  life,  by 
so  many  prodigies  of  passion  and  constancy,  appeared 
to  signalize  their  burial  by  a  fresh  miracle.  At  the 
moment  when  the  coffin  of  Abelard  was  opened,  to  lay 
within  it  the  body  of  Heloise,  it  was  said  that  the  arm 
of  the  skeleton,  compressed  for  twenty  years  under  the 
weight  of  the  lid,  stretched  itself  out,  opened,  and  ap- 
peared to  be  reanimated,  to  receive  the  spouse  restored 
by  heavenly  love  to  an  eternal  embrace.  This  credu- 
lity of  the  age,  transformed  into  an  actual  occurrence, 
was  related  by  historians  and  sung  by  poets,  and  con- 
secrated in  the  imagination  of  the  people  the  holiness 
of  the  reunited  pair. 

They  reposed  for  five  hundred  years  in  one  of  the 
aisles  of  the  Paraclete,  sometimes  separated  by  the 
scruples  of  the  abbess,  and  subsequently  united  again 
in  compliance  with  the  conjugal  desire,  strongly  ex- 
pressed in  life  as  in  death,  and  which  was  repeated 
even  from  the  tomb. 

The  French  Revolution,  which  scattered  to  the 
winds  the  dust  of  the  kings  and  princes  of  the  church, 
respected  the  remains  of  these  unfortunate  lovers. 
In  1792,  the  Paraclete  having  been  sold  as  ecclesiasti- 
cal property,  the  town  of  Nogent  removed  the  tombs, 
and  sheltered  them  in  the  nave  of  their  own  church. 
In  1800,  Lucien  Bonaparte,  a  zealous  advocate  of  let- 
ters, and  collector  of  ancient  relics,  instructed  a  re- 


318  LIVES    AND    LETTERS    OF 

spcctable  artist,  M.  Lenoir,  to  transport  the  coffin  of 
Abelard  and  Heloise  to  the  museum  of  French  monu- 
ments in  Paris.  When  the  lead  was  opened,  the  w  it- 
nesses  present  declared  "  that  the  two  bodies  had  been 
of  elevated  stature  and  beautifully  proportioned."  "  The 
head  of  Heloise,"  according  to  M.  Lenoir,  "  is  of  admir- 
able contour,  and  the  rounded  forehead  expresses  still 
the  most  perfect  beauty.  The  recumbent  statues  carved 
on  the  tomb  have  been  moulded  from  these  recomposed 
remains  by  the  imagination  of  the  sculptor.  A  few 
years  later,  the  mortuary  chapel  in  which  the  tomb 
was  inclosed  became  the  principal  ornament  of  the 
garden  of  the  museum."  The  visitors  were  frequent 
and  numerous.  In  1815,  the  government  of  the  Bour- 
bons, which  carefully  preserved  all  sepulchral  vestiges, 
to  bring  the  people  back  to  the  ancient  worship,  was 
desirous  of  removing  the  coffin  of  Abelard  and  Heloise 
to  the  abbey  of  St.  Denis,  a  sanctuary  to  which  it  no 
more  belonged  than  the  proscribed  does  to  the  pro- 
scriber.  General  opinion  protested  against  this  burying 
within  a  closed  church  a  monument  which  all  claimed 
as  public  property.  It  was  then  finally  placed  in  the 
great  necropolis  of  Paris,  the  cemetery  of  Pere-la- 
Chaise.  There  may  be  seen  the  statues  of  Abelard 
and  Heloise,  lying  side  by  side,  decked  with  flowers 
and  funereal  coronets,  perpetually  renewed  by  invisible 
hands.  Succeeding  generations  appear  to  claim  an 
eternal  relationship  with  the  illustrious  departed.  The 


ABELARD  AND  HELOISE.  319 

votive  offerings  proceed  from  kindred  souls,  separated 
by  death,  persecution,  or  worldly  impediments,  from 
those  to  whom  they  are  attached  on  earth,  or  mourn 
in  heaven.  They  thus  mysteriously  convey  "their  ad 
miration  for  truth  and  constancy,  and  their  sympathy 
with  the  posthumous  union  of  two  hearts,  who  trans- 
posed conjugal  tenderness  from  the  senses  to  the  soul, 
who  spiritualized  the  most  ardent  and  sensual  of  human 
passions,  and  changed  love  itself  into  a  holocaust,  a 
martyrdom,  and  a  holy  sacrifice. 


THE    END. 


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